by Amy Myers
‘I don’t know. I gather that Lizzie Dibble has decided to remain with her husband, and now the delightful Swinford-Browne has closed the cinema, I can’t even take over Frank Eliot’s job.’
‘You’re usually so enthusiastic about work.’
‘Just at the moment, sister dear, I don’t feel very enthusiastic about anything.’ Especially, she smarted inside, about younger sisters who sat smugly awaiting their firstborn and lording it over their elders.
‘I think Yves behaved very badly.’ Phoebe managed to put her dainty foot right in it, as usual.
‘No, he did not,’ Caroline yelled, red-faced, all good intentions of remaining calm forgotten. ‘It was always agreed what the end of the war would bring and so would you please not talk about it?’
‘Sorry.’
‘What on earth are you two shouting about?’ Elizabeth came in crossly. ‘Didn’t you hear me calling, Caroline? Luke is telephoning from your office.’
Instant alarm. What had gone wrong? Was it a summons to return to London immediately, or to say that Luke could not come? And if so … She flew to the telephone, a hundred horrors flicking through her mind.
‘Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away,’ Luke reassured her. ‘I’ve had an odd telephone call from your own wild horse, however.’
It took a moment before Caroline realised whom he was talking about. ‘Yves?’ Her heart pounded in a fanfare of joy.
‘It was a very bad line from Belgium. I couldn’t hear all he was saying, and then we were cut off.’
Keep still, heart, she silently ordered. Keep still, hope.
‘What did he want?’
‘I gather he’s been sent back to England today. All I could make out was Caroline, Dover, Town and half past three, and then the line went completely. Oh, and Caroline, tell Felicia not to get married before I get there tomorrow.’
Caroline’s hand trembled as she hung up the receiver. Why couldn’t Yves have rung her here? She knew the answer. Lines were difficult, to say the least, across the Channel, and only the line to the office would have any priority. Sent back to England? For how long? For Christmas? For two days? A month? Frustration clouded her mind, and only one thing was obvious. Yves would be at Dover Town Station at half past three, and that was where she must go. Now. She flew to the Bradshaw in the drawing room, leafing nervously through its bulk for the timetables she needed, for she’d have to change trains twice.
‘Tell Mother I have to go to Dover,’ she told Phoebe. ‘I’ll be back in time for the midnight Mass.’
Would she? She didn’t know, she couldn’t think. Would Yves be with her, or would it be just a fleeting encounter on his way to London?
‘Caroline, don’t be silly!’ Even Phoebe was alarmed and went through to find Elizabeth, who came back hurriedly from her glory-hole, but too late. Caroline was already running for the railway station. If she hurried, she could just get the twelve twenty-four to Tunbridge Wells, which might, if she were lucky with her connection, get her to Tonbridge in time to catch the Dover train from London. She’d arrive there at three-fifteen.
Why on earth had Yves cut it so fine? Was it a sudden mission?
The problem was that timetables were almost irrelevant nowadays with so many troop trains and delays, and that hadn’t stopped just because the war had. British troops had advanced into Germany to occupy it while they were establishing their political system and that, with returning POWs crowding trains in the opposite direction, guaranteed wartime train travel conditions still prevailed.
Suppose she missed Yves? Suppose he had been planning to go to London after seeing her? At the very least he might come down with Luke for Christmas Day. Even King Albert wouldn’t insist he worked then, so Caroline might have her Christmas after all. What matter if her happiness was restored only for a short time? Omar Khayyám, whose Rubáiyát she had given Yves in 1916, worked to the philosophy of eat, drink and be merry. Very well, she would, she vowed, though could not quite convince herself that this was wise. All she cared about was that in about two hours’ time she would see Yves.
She leapt onto the train just as it was about to puff off once more, and it was only as the train steamed out she saw two familiar figures. Felicia had obviously just arrived and was now in Daniel’s arms. She hadn’t even had time to call out hello. No matter, she was decidedly de trop, and anyway she was en route to a tryst of her own. God had been listening to Caroline Lilley after all.
‘I feel we’ve both come home at long last,’ said Felicia contentedly, as they walked down Station Road.
‘Are you sure it’s a home with me you want?’ Daniel asked. She smiled at him, for they both knew the question was superfluous.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And what of Luke?’
‘If the boot were on the other foot, would he be asking the same question about you?’
Daniel sighed. ‘I must be the most selfish chap alive – and the luckiest. Shall we live in Ashden?’
‘No. You want to travel, remember?’
‘But I can’t—’ He grinned. ‘I can, but it’s no life for a married man.’
‘I don’t want to prevent you from doing what you want.’
‘Climb the Himalayas? Go diving in the Seven Seas?’
‘Anything you like. And I’ll come with you.’
Caroline fumed. Why did trains have to be so maddeningly slow? Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, Yves is back, she silently chanted in excitement as the train steamed on. At last it condescended to reach Dover Town Station. Why had he said the Town Station and not the harbour if he had come by ferry or troop ship? She dismissed this puzzle as she hurried over the bridge and into the booking hall. It was the scene of many family reunions, but there was no sign of Yves. Well, she was five minutes early. She tried to busy herself at the station news stand, then by staring at the timetables. Anything to make the time pass more quickly. With the short days, light was already fading and she envied those who had departed to their own homes, reunited with loved ones. How would Yves arrive here? It was a long walk from the harbour. A train? There was none due according to the timetables. A troop lorry from the docks?
Trying not to feel concern, she watched the hands of the station clock creep round to twenty to four, then quarter to the hour. She went to look at the timetable again. Could Luke have misinterpreted what Yves said? Could she have done so? Dover Town – suppose there had been a break between the two words: Dover … I’m going to town. That’s how everybody referred to London casually, and Yves had caught the habit. He could have gone straight to Victoria from the harbour and would be in London at three-thirty, not here. That’s where she should have met him.
With growing dismay, she studied the timetable again. She had only five minutes in which to catch the train she had believed she and Yves might return to Tonbridge on, and it was the last that could reasonably be expected, allowing the two changes, to get them to Ashden this evening. Get her to Ashden, she sadly corrected herself. Yves might just be late, but in her heart she knew this was not the answer, and slowly she walked back to the London platform.
Even if she saw Yves for a few hours tomorrow, there would be no precious night together.
‘I’ll answer it, Percy,’ Felicia called out. She was busy decorating the Christmas tree in the entrance hall, with Phoebe shouting orders at her from the comfort of an armchair.
‘Isn’t it wonderful to be home?’ Phoebe had said.
‘Yes,’ she had answered mechanically, but it wasn’t that wonderful. The deep joy of her new understanding with Daniel was marred by the thought of having to break the news to Luke tomorrow.
‘He’ll take it better than you think,’ Daniel had said consolingly.
‘Yes, but—’ She stopped, for she could not put the thought behind the ‘but’ into words, even for herself.
She opened the front door, and to her astonishment there stood a familiar khaki-clad figure.
‘What on earth are you doing here, Yves? And where’s Ca
roline? Mother said she’d gone dashing off to Dover to meet you.’ Felicia was alarmed.
His face changed in shock. ‘But I told Luke my train would get in at three-thirty here at Ashden.’
No wonder Caroline had not been at the station to greet him as he had expected and longed for.
Felicia groaned. ‘Luke said it was a bad line. It wasn’t even clear whether you were coming to the Rectory or going to London.’
Yves glanced down at his luggage in despair. ‘I must go. Now. She may be waiting for me alone in Dover. This is terrible.’
‘Yes, but—’ This time Felicia could frame the thought behind the ‘but’; it was too late, however. Yves was already running across to Station Road. The ‘but’ had been that it would take hours to get back to Dover, with no surety that Caroline would be there to meet him.
‘Who was that?’ Her father appeared in the hallway.
‘Yves. There’s been a mix-up,’ she explained, and the Rector paled.
‘Caroline would surely have the sense to go to Buckford House if she were stranded?’ It didn’t sound as if he had any confidence about this.
‘She’s more likely to go to London or try to get back here. Probably the latter, seeing how slow the trains will be tomorrow.’
‘She’ll telephone, surely. How long is Yves here for, and where is he?’
‘I didn’t think to ask him – and he’s gone rushing back to Dover.’
‘They’re both as mad as each other,’ Laurence said crossly.
What a to-do. Here it was time for Christmas Eve dinner, and no one knew where Miss Caroline was, and no sign of Mr George yet, though he’d promised faithfully he’d be home. At least Miss Tilly was home, together with Lord Banning and his daughter.
‘Myrtle, get those potatoes out of the oven,’ Margaret commanded. ‘They’ll be done to a crisp. And next Christmas Eve, mind you get that stuffing done quicker.’
Myrtle obeyed, then straightened up as she dumped the somewhat charred potatoes onto the table. ‘There may not be a next year,’ she muttered.
‘What’s that, Myrtle?’
‘I really am going to leave soon, Mrs Dibble.’
Margaret snorted. ‘Leave the Rectory? You’ll never do that, not while the kiddies are here.’
‘I don’t want you to think I’ve not been happy here, Mrs Dibble,’ Myrtle said fiercely, ‘but now the war’s over it’s time to think of kiddies of my own. Times are changing. A girl’s got to look after herself now, and there are no prospects here.’
‘Prospects?’ Dismay made Margaret curt. ‘What do you think you are – a bank manager? You thank your lucky stars you got a job at all, Myrtle.’
‘And I don’t meet any young men here.’
‘There aren’t any to meet any more,’ Margaret replied soberly. ‘There’s many a girl in England not going to have a man of her own ever.’
‘So you see,’ Myrtle came back quickly, ‘I’m right to get out and look around.’
Perhaps Myrtle would change her mind, perhaps she wouldn’t. Margaret made herself a cup of tea and thought about it. Once she accustomed herself to the idea that Myrtle was leaving, it wouldn’t seem so bad. Just because she, Margaret, would never leave the Rectory, she couldn’t expect the same to apply to everybody else. She’d have to train a new girl though. Agnes couldn’t manage alone. And come to that, what might Agnes’s plans be?
Penelope finished helping Felicia with the Christmas tree, and decided to take a stroll around the village before dark fell completely. Her footsteps took her to the cinema, and she stood outside it for some moments, surprised to see it in darkness and obviously closed up. Then briskly she walked away along Bankside. Where the bombed cottages had been, she had expected to see an empty shell, a scarred hole of rubble, but instead she saw an orderly piece of ground, fenced off and with winter vegetables growing in it. At the moment it also contained Frank Eliot, whom she hadn’t seen since he had returned to Ashden after his illness.
‘Hallo, Frank,’ she said brightly, opening the new wicket gate and going in. ‘Growing for England, are you?’ she continued.
He grinned. ‘Something like that, Miss Banning.’
‘I heard you had gone into the cinema,’ she continued doggedly. ‘I imagined you’d be another Douglas Fairbanks by now, not growing vegetables.’ With his moustache and tall, lean figure, he did have something of the Fairbanks look.
‘Not exactly a Douglas Fairbanks. More of a Charlie Chaplin. I’m afraid the cinema is no more. Swinford-Browne couldn’t wait to get rid of me in gratitude for all the work I did for his hop fields.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not. It’s given me more time to create this garden. It won’t be a vegetable garden for long. When life is normal again, it will be a flower garden in memory of Isabel Swinford-Browne.’
‘I hadn’t heard about that either. What a nice idea,’ Penelope said approvingly. ‘Are you in charge of the project?’
He hesitated. ‘Partly.’
‘What will you plant—?’
‘I won’t be planting anything,’ he cut in abruptly. ‘I’m leaving the village.’
‘Leaving?’ Penelope was taken aback. ‘But your son—’
‘I hear Rudolf is a good man. He says he’ll take care of him.’
‘But,’ Penelope struggled to cope with this unexpected development, ‘what about Lizzie?’ Having heard no more from Caroline, she had assumed Lizzie had elected to stay with Frank.
‘She says it’s best this way, and I agree.’
‘What will you do?’
He shrugged. ‘Go into hops again, perhaps. Not here, though. I’ve had enough of Sussex, even if the old hop fields are kept up.’
‘Are hops really your life’s work?’ Penelope asked hesitantly.
‘I’m over forty now, rather old for dreams, Penelope – I’m sorry, Miss Banning.’
‘Penelope.’
‘You have youth on your side, so what’s your dream?’ Frank abruptly turned the tables, perhaps, she guessed, to ignore the gauntlet she had just laid down.
She longed to answer, ‘You, Frank,’ but instead she said, ‘Some kind of venture of my own. Some business I can run. I’d be good at that. Now tell me yours.’ She spoke so firmly he could not refuse her this time.
Unwillingly he replied, ‘I’d like to design gardens, huge gardens, small gardens, and then watch them grow.’
‘Then why don’t you?’
‘It requires money,’ he said wryly. ‘And connections. Pity. I’d be good at it.’
Penelope stared at him. In 1914 she had gone on an impulse out to Serbia. Now she felt a similar impulse. Again it was a risk, but she had the same feeling that it was right. ‘That might be no problem.’ She was nervous, not because she doubted herself but because she feared his reaction.
He flushed, and started to say something. ‘My money, my connections, your creativity. Think about it, Frank,’ she interrupted quickly, before he could turn her down.
He looked at her, saw that she was serious, and nodded his head. ‘Very well. I’ll think. May I call on you in London?’ He seemed surprised himself at his answer, and, well satisfied, she strode away.
Frank watched her go. Not for the first time, it occurred to him she had somewhat the look and character of his Jennifer.
Caroline sat despondently on a bench at Tonbridge, waiting for the Tunbridge Wells connection. It was all a terrible nightmare. There was no Yves and she’d missed the Christmas preparations too. Furthermore she wouldn’t be home until eight o’clock at the earliest, and would undoubtedly miss Yves’ telephone call from London. She felt very sorry for herself indeed, and for the first time tears began to flow.
‘Poor dear.’ The woman next to her on the bench drew nearer. ‘Lost your sweetheart, have you?’
‘Yes,’ said Caroline bleakly. She had. Not once, but twice.
About six-thirty the doorbell rang again, and Felicia ran to open it in the hope of
its being Caroline. It wasn’t. In the Rectory drive was a large and unfamiliar army staff car, and on the doorstep were three large male strangers, one in civilian clothes of a very odd type indeed with a three-cornered hat, and two younger men in army uniform, which Felicia belatedly registered was American. All three of them were grinning and had a somewhat familiar air about them.
‘Laurence at home, is he?’ the older man asked, as she confusedly stood aside to let them in. He then proceeded to pump her hand up and down. ‘Where is the old son of a gun?’
Attracted by the loud noise, Laurence came out of the drawing room with Elizabeth close on his heels. He stopped short, and stared at the three of them, his gaze going from one to the other. Then two strides took him to the older man, where he proceeded first to pump his hand up and down, and then to hug him.
‘Gerald! Taken your time, haven’t you?’ He was half laughing, half crying.
‘Sure have. Gave up waiting for you to come over to Colorado, and when Jake and Pete here came over to bail you folks out in France, I thought why not meet them and go down to see the folks?’
‘And I’m delighted,’ Laurence said simply. ‘How did you know to come here and not Dover though?’
‘Dover?’ Gerald grinned. ‘How is the old battleaxe?’
Lady Buckford descended the stairs in stately fashion. ‘The old battleaxe is quite well, thank you, my son.’
No Caroline at the Town Station, and no sign of her at the docks. Yves had gone straight to Buckford House but no one there had seen her either and when he telephoned the Rectory, Caroline had not returned. Someone at the station remembered seeing a young lady wearing a WAAC’s uniform waiting much earlier in the afternoon, but she’d left alone on the London train. He promptly rang the office and then Queen Anne’s Gate, but there was no reply from either. There were two choices. Either Caroline was on the way back to Ashden, or on her way to London and Queen Anne’s Gate. He’d understood Luke wasn’t going to Ashden until morning so she could be planning to travel with him. What a waste of precious, precious time.
