“The end of an era,” she said sadly.
The death of Agnes Wentworth was, indeed the end of an era. Love her or hate her, many of the townsfolk turned out to bid her goodbye. After the funeral at St Mark’s Parish Church she was buried in the Woodville family vault next to her first husband, Sir Guy. In death she really became Lady Woodville again, which is what she would have wished.
Her grandchildren Jack and Betsy Sprogett attended with their stepfather Graham Temple, but Elizabeth remained unforgiving and stayed away.
As usual on these occasions there was a reception afterwards at Pelham’s Oak for all those who had attended the funeral and, as usual, when they left the family remained behind. Carson had had little reason to love Agnes. As his stepmother she had done him few good turns but, being the charitable man he was, he had been gracious to her in her old age.
Eliza too would miss Agnes, despite her ingratitude and duplicity. There were some people who were larger than life and Agnes had been one of them: a trouper, an adventuress who had probably not intended much of the harm she’d done.
Sophie, a near neighbour, had grown quite fond of Agnes despite her bad influence on her daughters of whom Deborah was the only person observed openly to weep in church. Her sister Ruth had remained dry-eyed. Ruth had married her cousin Abel Yetman and, in the absence of children, had become a pillar of the community almost obsessed with good works which had now turned into frenetic war work. Abel, excused military service on account of poor eyesight, was a valuable and enthusiastic member of Carson’s Home Guard.
As usual, Sally Woodville felt out of things. Although she was one of the family by birth as well as by marriage, for some indefinable reason she always felt a stranger when they were all gathered together, a clan which seemed to exclude her. It was not that anyone did anything to her or that any of them were unfriendly. Maybe the reserve was in herself, or perhaps it was that she knew they had all liked Connie, whom she had supplanted, and she was aware that she could not take Connie’s place.
On occasions like today Sally would make herself busy overseeing the catering, and chatting to the guests who did not quite fit in, as she felt was the case with herself. The one member of the family who made a difference to Sally was not Eliza, not Sophie, not Ruth or Deborah or Abel’s sisters Martha and Felicity, not Elizabeth or Lally, but Dora, who seemed to understand her in a way that no one, certainly not her husband, did.
Dora had been away for months on some secret exercise to do with the war which she was not allowed to talk about. She had returned for Agnes’s funeral and it was possible to notice a change in her, an air of suppressed excitement, of nervous energy. Dora loved family and enjoyed these gatherings even when the occasion was a sad one.
The fact was that no one could really feel sad or broken-hearted about Agnes. Agnes had been feared and respected rather than loved; a source of irritation and pain rather than joy, but she was family and the right thing had to be done by her, the obsequies and formalities carried out to the letter. Agnes would have expected a good send-off and she got one. The family did her proud.
Sally had missed Dora and as soon as tea was served she went and sat down next to her.
“It’s good to see you,” she said warmly. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” Dora patted her knee. “You look splendid, and I hear the WVS would be useless without you.”
“I do my bit.” Sally tried to look modest.
“And Carson is galvanising the Home Guard?”
“Oh, he’s in his element. He’s also very much into all the agricultural reforms the Government wants in order to help the war effort. We have doubled food production. We now have three tractors, and much more land has been turned into arable use. The Ministry are very pleased with us and hold us up as an example of a model farm to others. However,” Sally sighed, “there is a down side. We hardly see each other. Still, I don’t think Carson minds.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that.” Dora’s voice was brisk.
Sally regarded her carefully. “You look different. Did you have a good time ... wherever it was?”
“Scotland actually.” Dora put down her cup. “It was brilliant. All the people were half my age but I didn’t care. It was good to feel young again.” She smiled at Sally.
“But, still you can’t say?”
“All I can say is that I’m going abroad. Quite soon I hope.”
“Abroad?”
“But not when or where. I shouldn’t really tell you this.”
“Oh, dear.” Sally was crestfallen. “I hoped, well I missed you. Will you be gone long?”
“Can’t say.” Dora looked mysterious. Then her expression changed and became a little anxious. “Keep an eye on Mum for me won’t you – and Louise?”
“I wish I were you,” Sally said. “If I went no one would miss me. I long to join up but Carson won’t let me.” Sally began a confiding tone and then paused and bit her lip.
“Go on,” Dora encouraged her.
“I often feel that, after the war, Carson and I might divorce, you know.”
“Oh, don’t say that.” Dora gripped her arm.
“We grow further and further apart. He never seems to have time for me so I make do with lots of activity. If only we had children I suppose it would help ...”
“But you’ve tried?”
“We’ve done everything. I don’t think it matters much to him but it does to me. I always think Carson married me on the rebound from Connie – that it’s Connie he really loves. He once told me – before we were married – that he should never have let her go. Oh, Dora I wish I could come with you to ... wherever it is.”
Dora, still clutching Sally’s arm looked at her intently. “Sally you can work on a marriage, you know. I did. I felt rather about Jean as you feel about Carson for a long time. At one stage in my life I was not a particularly good wife. I left him for a time and went off with someone else. But then, after I had Louise, Jean and I attempted to make a go of things and we succeeded. I love him very much and all I want is to get back to him.”
“In that case,” Sally lowered her voice, “I think I know where you’re going.” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Take care. Come back, won’t you?”
*****
Dora tiptoed into Louise’s bedroom and, seeing she was awake, sat on the bed beside her holding her hand. “You should be asleep, darling.”
Louise shook her head.
“I missed you Mummy and now you’re going away again. I don’t think you love me.”
“Oh, I do, my darling.”
As the young girl sat up Dora clutched her to her bosom, pressed her head against hers. She knew that she could not bear the thought that she might never see her daughter again, a possibility that had been emphasised throughout the gruelling course she’d been on at a secret location in Scotland in preparation for her clandestine activities in France: ‘You do realise, Mrs Parterre, what a dangerous mission you are undertaking and that you may never see your daughter again?’ they had said.
But somehow there had been no choice, no real choice. It was duty, it was love of her country, love of her husband. She knew that Louise was safe, but that Jean was in danger and he needed her.
However, as she clutched the warm, infinitely precious, body of her daughter to her she wondered if she had done the right thing. Fraught with danger as her mission was, as Jean’s was, might they not leave Louise an orphan? Was it fair to her? If it was not, was it now too late to pull out?
Cold and frightened Dora sat huddled in the body of the Lysander as it began its descent into the area where it was due to land beside the Marne, not far from her home in France. She was conscious of the sound of the engines changing, of people moving about ready to begin the swift unloading of the plane. There were two other agents being landed with her and plenty of supplies. The plane had to turn round so quickly to avoid the enemy that the whole thing had been well and truly rehearsed beforehand.
Now she felt terrified. The moment of landing was the most dangerous time: the flight path would be lit up with flares; they would run away from the plane quickly and dive for cover, or scatter; the supplies would be thrown out and rapidly collected by the partisans waiting on the ground. The whole thing would take minutes and then the plane would be off again. Now she wished she was going back with it. The man next to her nudged her, extended a hand. He’d been on the same course as she had. He was a Frenchman returning home.
“Bonne chance,” he said.
Dora gripped his hand.
“Bonne chance, mon ami.”
There was a jolt as the plane landed. Almost before it came to a halt the doors were opened and, one after the other, they were almost pushed out of the plane and told to run. Dora fell on her face, quickly recovered and made for the shadow of the trees. The moon had suddenly appeared from behind the clouds making the terrain as light as day.
Her heart pounding, she reached the shelter of the thicket and lay down raising her head slightly to catch sight of the tiny figures scattered across the ground as they collected the supplies that were being hurled from the aircraft. Then the doors were shut, the propellers whirled into life and the plane taxied away, rose into the air and began its precipitous ascent to clear the tops of the trees.
Dora listened for shots but there were none.
The scene in front of her was now empty. She was aware of a low murmur of voices and then, suddenly, a torch was shone in her face and she put both hands across her mouth to prevent herself from screaming.
“Dora,” a well-known, beloved voice said and Jean crushed her to his chest and hugged her so hard she felt her ribs would break. Then he buried his face in her hair and she put up a hand and felt his cheeks wet with tears.
December 1942
Alexander stood in the hall of command operations headquarters his eyes fixed on the doorway through which Minnie would come or, rather, through which he hoped she would come as he had not told her of his arrival. He wanted to observe her face when she saw him, to know if she felt the same as when they had parted during his last brief leave. Up to then they had seen each other regularly but on a purely platonic basis, as friends, each of whom had endured a tragedy; the loss of a loved one whose memories they didn’t want to sully. But gradually they had become aware that their natural affection was turning into something stronger and deeper, and they had left the issue unresolved.
While Alexander had been overseas they had written constantly to each other and, as far as Alexander was concerned, the bond had deepened.
Alexander’s feeling of anxiety increased as a sudden flurry of blue uniformed WAAFs appeared at the door adjusting their caps and shoulder bags.
There was no sign of Minnie. He should have warned her. He’d wanted it to be a surprise, but perhaps she was on leave. He was about to enquire at the reception desk when there she stood in the doorway – a solitary figure, immaculately dressed, pulling on her gloves with a detached, preoccupied air. At that moment she saw him too, stiffened, an expression of incredulity, almost fear on her face as if she could hardly believe her eyes. Slowly her expression seemed to adjust, to soften, and she broke into a smile. They began to walk towards each other with a strange almost somnolent gait, like sleepwalkers.
They met in the centre of the hall and stood looking at each other.
“Well, you came,” she said, a catch in her voice.
“I said I would.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
“I wasn’t sure of the day or the time. Besides,” he looked at her strangely, “I wanted to surprise you.”
“How long have you got?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks!”
“Christmas leave. The first for three years. Aren’t I lucky? And you? Oh Minnie, I hope you’re not ... doing anything special.”
“Nothing I can’t cancel,” she said lightly. “Shall we go back to the flat and change?”
That night they dined at the Four Hundred. Minnie wore an evening gown of blue velvet cut on the bias so that it swirled around her, emphasising her slim, lithe figure. It plunged at the neck to a deep V showing a gentle mound of white breast and the corsage of white gardenias which Alexander had bought her. At her ears were diamond and sapphire earrings, a family heirloom.
Alexander wore a black tie. After dinner they started to dance and suddenly it seemed as though the war was very far away, or had never happened and that it was all a bad dream.
“Can you get leave?” Alexander murmured holding her close as they danced to a slow foxtrot.
“I can try. I haven’t had any for months.”
“I thought we’d go to Forest House. Unless you’d prefer somewhere else?”
“Forest House sounds lovely. Lally will want you with her anyway. Oh, Alexander,” – that catch in her voice again – “I can’t believe you’re back, that it’s you.” He was aware of the pressure of her hand on his shoulder. “Was El Alamein terrible? You were there weren’t you?”
“For both the first and second battle. It was vital for the support of the army.” Alexander stopped and clicked his fingers. “And we got the bastards! It was a famous victory. Believe me it will mark the turning of the tide.”
She snuggled up to him again. “I wish you could be grounded. You’ve been so lucky. Not a scratch.”
“I had to bail out over the desert,” Alexander said grimly. “They got my wing. Luckily one of our blokes got him or he’d have pranged me as I bailed out. I fell behind lines but the following day I was up in the air again. Thirteen kills now, you know. I think I’m to be promoted.”
The music stopped and, as couples drifted back to their tables, they remained where they were at the centre of the dance floor, oblivious to everyone. Alexander gazed tenderly down at Minnie, his arm firmly encircling her waist.
“Minnie, I am in love with you, you know. I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”
For answer she leaned her head against his breast saying nothing, but he knew from the tension in her body that she felt the same.
Lally said, “What will you do about Irene?”
“What do you mean ‘what will I do’?” Alexander and Lally were in the drawing room after lunch. Minnie had gone to lie down, exhausted from continuous night-work.
“What if she comes back?”
“I’ll face that when it happens.”
“You can’t marry Minnie you know, much as I’d love it.”
“I know, and she knows it too. She’s quite well aware of the situation. You don’t expect me to give up this happiness just because neither of us can see into the future do you?”
“Of course I don’t, darling.” Lally went over to him and perched on the arm of his chair. “It’s just that I can’t bear the hurt. Everyone will be hurt.”
“Everyone thinks Irene is either dead or in a concentration camp. They’re gassing the Jews, you know.”
“Oh no!” Lally horrified put a hand to her face.
“No doubt about it. All the intelligence reports confirm it. They’re taking them straight to the concentration camps and killing them. It may be that Irene escaped, I don’t know. Please God she has, but we shan’t know until the war is over.”
“I love Irene,” Lally said. “I would hate anything to happen to her. The trouble is I love Minnie too.”
“That’s the way I feel,” Alexander said sadly. “That just about sums up the situation for me.”
When Alexander got upstairs he paused outside Minnie’s door then knocked.
“Come in,” she called and he opened the door and found her sitting up in bed reading.
He stood for a few moments looking down at her. “How’s the head?”
“Much better,” she said.
“You’ve been overdoing it.” He leaned down and stroked her brow. “Minnie, do you think it’s wrong if we –”
She put aside her book and looked at him with that steady, r
ather solemn gaze that made his heart turn over. “You’re thinking about Irene?”
“I want to do the right thing, by her and by you.”
Minnie reached for his hand and pressed it.
“I would never stand in your way if Irene came back.”
“I might not know what to do.”
“You would. I would know what to do.” She put her book on the bedside table and held out her hand invitingly.
“Darling, let’s live for the moment, shall we? For this time next year we might both be dead.”
Chapter Eight
September 1943
Dora straightened up to ease her aching back and, shielding her eyes from the sun, looked down at the River Marne which flowed sedately along – a broad ribbon of peace, untouched by strife – below her. On either bank the neat ranks of vines, like rows of soldiers on parade, stretched for mile after mile as far as the eye could see. Soldiers was perhaps an unfortunate simile, but then thoughts of war were omnipresent however much one tried to forget it.
Yet overhead the eternal sky was blue. Birds, unfazed by battles, swooped low on the lookout for pickings of luscious, overripe grapes. Like her, dozens of grape pickers were slowly making their way along the rows, carefully cutting the bunches of grapes from the vines with their sharp épinettes, placing them carefully in the mannequins, oval-shaped baskets, which would take them to the press.
It was very different from the old days when the vineyards were full of skilled vendangeurs, the pickers who came regularly each year from all over France and stayed in huts that had been specially built for them for the duration of the harvest. Many were factory workers who brought their families from the industrial towns of the Saar or Massif Central. There were gypsies with their colourful caravans, students, itinerant workers and layabouts, all of whom descended on the countryside for the vendange, the harvest, which was held every year approximately one hundred days after the flowering of the vines.
At the end of the harvest there had been a cochelet, a great feast which was attended by all the pickers, their friends and hangers on, when drinking and dancing went on until dawn.
In Time of War (Part Six of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 10
