Legends of the Lost Lilies

by Jackie French

  ‘One day, perhaps,’ said James. ‘I have arranged for a car, Miss Nichols. I hope you enjoy your leave.’

  She met his eyes for the first time. ‘I’m going to my aunt’s. She lives by the beach. I’d like to swim for days, just swim and wash everything I’ve seen and done away, but of course the beach is all landmines and barbed wire now. So I’ll sit with the seagulls and pretend.’

  Miss Nichols stood. Ethel stood too and offered her hand. ‘Thank you, Miss Nichols. And . . .’ Ethel Carryman did not usually fumble for words. ‘Good luck.’ It seemed the most inadequate statement she had ever made.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Ethel waited till the young woman had left the room. ‘I know why you wanted me to hear that,’ she said quietly. ‘Five men and a woman dead to save the lives of nineteen children, because you and I and that young woman know it’s not a labour camp they were being sent to but the gas chambers. You want me to say that what May did was right, that killing six to save nineteen is justified.’

  ‘No,’ said James. His voice twisted. ‘I wanted you to hear it because May’s real name was June Anne Lorrimer, and she was my niece. Until her death she was my only living relative, which is why I was permitted to know how she died, and why. And you are one of the few people I care about who I can tell about her death.’

  ‘James.’ She touched his arm gently. And suddenly he was crying, sobbing on her shoulder as she held him and muttered words she vaguely remembered her mother, lost when Ethel was ten, using to comfort her. ‘There, there, love. You let yourself cry now. I’m here . . .’

  The air-raid siren shrieked, disturbing two pigeons perched on the windowsill that had ignored the human drama inside.

  ‘Cellar,’ said Ethel. ‘Come on, love.’

  ‘No.’ James rubbed his eyes. ‘Can’t let the servants see me like this.’

  ‘I’m not giving up my life just so you can look like a stuffed shirt till your final breath, and that might be soon if we don’t get a move on. Come on, or I’ll sling you over my shoulder.’

  ‘Priest’s hole,’ said James shortly. He pressed the edge of the mantelpiece, then pulled at a section of panelling. It opened to a narrow door, showing even narrower steps. ‘There’s another cellar down here. It’s no secret — it’s where I usually go.’ He wiped his eyes, then blew his nose efficiently and picked up his briefcase. ‘Come on.’

  Of course James Lorrimer would have a priest’s hole, just as he had hothouses and partridges and quail. The Carrymans probably had more money than the Lorrimers — the remaining Lorrimer — but they did not have a priest’s hole, nor hothouses nor game birds.

  Ethel grabbed her handbag, piled the last of the edibles onto a plate and ran down the stairs. A moment later he followed her.

  The room below was small, but set up with textbook perfection: an immaculate single bed with pillow, sheets and quilts; a wooden keg plus two sturdy canteens that almost certainly held water; a cupboard she’d take short odds on holding packaged water biscuits, powdered milk, cocoa and other long-lived comestibles; two covered buckets, one for a toilet and one for washing; three torches, spare batteries and enamel plates, mugs and a dozen books on a shelf; a metal chest with a red cross on it; a table with notepaper, pens, two bottles of ink and blotting paper; and under the bed what looked like four small paintings, wrapped in blankets, and a compact storage box. A single chair sat neatly at the table.

  ‘You have the bed —’ began James. He stopped and listened. Ethel could hear engines now. Ours or theirs?

  The world collapsed.

  Chapter 34

  Humans have been selectively breeding for thousands of years. No, my dears, I don’t mean dogs, or even camels, but people. Marriages are arranged directly, or indirectly, as most young people choose partners of whom their family circle approves. Romeo and Juliet’s fate is a tragedy because it is rare, not common. All in all, I think we have been more successful breeding dogs, though I, too, am one of those who ‘arranges’ — or at least suggests — acquaintances that could result in productive alliances. The most obvious pairings, however, are not all the most successful . . .

  Miss Lily, 1938

  The room was dark, her mouth and eyes filled with dust, but Ethel was whole and nothing hurt. ‘James?’

  ‘Here.’ A hand reached for hers. ‘Are you injured?’

  ‘No. You?’ She tried to breathe as shallowly as she could till the dust settled.

  ‘No. That one hit the house,’ he added. ‘Or next door, perhaps.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said: inadequate again.

  ‘So am I. But the servants will be safe — the wine cellar is two levels down. They can go up to the country place till I find a flat; it will have to be a hotel for a while, with housing the way it is. Harrison could do with some country air. Luckily I sent everything I truly value out of London in thirty-nine . . .’

  He was turning efficiency into a wall to protect him from what must be the almost unbearable loss of the home he had shared with his wife, dead now forty years, the library where he had spun webs that crossed the world and brought countries together, however briefly.

  Ethel wiped more grit from her eyes. Her hair felt like it was thick with plaster. But at least the air felt breathable again. ‘I’d offer you my spare room, but I share the house with a Polish family. The grandma is a right good cook, but I doubt you’d want to share a bathroom with five kiddies.’

  ‘I’d manage.’

  ‘But would they be able to keep their legs crossed for half an hour while your valet shaves you?’

  ‘I shave myself. Three minutes. As you may see tomorrow morning — I have a feeling it may be daylight before we get out again. The air-raid wardens know the cellars are good here,’ he added. ‘If there’s no fire they’ll see to others tonight first.’ A torch flicked on. He passed her another. Their beams speared up the stairwell, now blocked by what looked like half the fireplace.

  Fire, thought Ethel.

  ‘I threw a bucket of sand on the library fire as we left the room. The servants will have done the same to the kitchen fire. We only have those two burning these days.’

  No drawing-room fire, she thought. No servants’ hall fire either. Cold beds and . . .

  Beds. Or rather, one bed. She sat on it, turned off her torch to save the battery, then reached for her handbag by the light of his, and pulled out her Thermos. ‘Hot cocoa,’ she said. ‘Just what we need for shock.’

  She took two mugs from the shelf — the cellar certainly was sturdy, for crockery had not even fallen — filled them, handed one to him and took the other for herself. For possibly the first time in her life she had no wish for fruitcake.

  ‘James, about your niece — I wish I could remake the world or take the pain for you.’

  ‘Do you think her heroic or a murderess?’ His low voice held all the emotion now that he had not expressed earlier.

  She examined her words carefully before she put them together. ‘She’s a heroine, right enough. A glorious girl: and you’ll hang her portrait above the mantelpiece after the war and tell everyone who sees it what she did.’

  ‘But would you have made that choice?’

  She answered right away. For this was not just an instance of one extraordinary young woman, but the entire basis of Ethel’s life and faith. ‘Yes, if I’d had the courage and the skill and the quickness of wit to do it. And I’d have spent the rest of my life trying to think of what else I might have done to save those children, without killing others for their sakes. I might think my whole life and not find a way, but I’d still try. And they would never be just the enemy neither, nor their families nor the lives they might have had.’

  ‘They were killing children!’

  ‘They were transporting children. And, yes, at the end of that the children would die, but that does not mean that every one of those men might not have regretted what he did, or even done his best not to let it happen. Did the soldiers maybe manage to leav
e one or two kiddies behind? Warn the orphanage so even more might have escaped the night before? Were they doing their best that day or their worst, or just muddling on in a war they couldn’t help? Would one of those men repent one day, and make restitution their whole lives? We’ll never know. But it doesn’t change the fact that June gave her life for nineteen children, and made sure all her comrades got safely away as well. And mayhap, if she’d lived, she might have thought of those she killed just as I’d have done.’

  ‘You think I don’t? Remember all I’ve killed, or had a part in killing?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think that. I never did. I just think those in power need to spend a bit more time working out other ways to stop men like Mr Hitler.’

  ‘When you think of one, do let me know,’ he said drily.

  ‘Well, I’ve got one to begin with. We teach people to grow consciences. A conscience needs to be sown and fed and watered, and to have people around with consciences for it to grow. If we do that then there’ll be no beggars, or Jewish people or Gypsies locked up in camps, nor anybody shot either, because we’ll see everyone as a person who has a value like our own.’ Ethel paused, then added, ‘I reckon your June knew that. She gave her life for nineteen children because she couldn’t pass them by.’

  They sat in silence for a while or, rather, the opposite of silence, for masonry still fell in trickles or unexpected crashes above them. But no noises from the street came through the thick stone walls and, to Ethel’s relief, no sound of explosions from escaping gas nor the smell of smoke.

  ‘I think we’re safe enough, for now. I’d offer you my pyjamas,’ he said at last, ‘but I doubt they’d fit.’

  ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t. I’ll make do with my petticoat.’

  More non-silence.

  James stood, brushed off more dust, then wiped his face with his handkerchief — a clean one, Ethel noticed. The man must have several about his person. He hesitated, then sat within touching distance next to her. ‘Do you remember our last meal together?’

  ‘In 1939. You were called away halfway through the salmon. I stayed to eat the saddle of mutton and the crepes you’d ordered, in case you came back, but you didn’t, and the next day war was declared.’

  ‘I was going to ask you to marry me.’

  She stared. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘That isn’t the kind of thing one forgets,’ he said drily. ‘I had the ring in my pocket, in case you said yes.’

  ‘Well, that was blooming extravagant. What if I’d said no?’

  ‘It was my great-grandmother’s. My grandmother and mother wore it too.’

  But not his wife, she realised, for his mother had still been alive when she died. He must have had the ring doubled in size to fit her own finger.

  ‘I meant, were you still going to ask me? We’d argued all through the soup, remember.’

  ‘I remember very clearly. You called me a murderer.’

  ‘I did not. I said those who cause people to be killed are as responsible for their deaths as those who carry out the act. War doesn’t create peace. Look at this one — it’s son and daughter of the Great War.’

  ‘But war can be a plaster holding things together long enough to find a lasting peace. We failed to do that in 1918 — we betrayed the terms of the ceasefire, agreed to that ‘peace treaty’ the French insisted on, made things a thousand times worse. But there was no avoiding this war by 1939 — it was fight or be conquered.’

  He looked at her, waiting for argument, but she did not speak. So he filled the silence again. ‘There comes a time when you need to fight. But never think I haven’t given most of my life to finding other solutions. Once a shot is fired, you’ve lost, no matter who is the eventual victor.’ He looked at the floor, not her. ‘I apologise for making a speech.’

  ‘I like people to speak their minds.’ Ethel considered. ‘I won’t disagree with most of it, either. All, of it, mebbe — but only mebbe. I’d need to think on it.’

  ‘I spent twenty years trying to stop this war,’ he said quietly, ‘and a decade failing to prevent the last. War is the last resort. I must save my country and just now that means winning the war, and to do so means killing or decommissioning as many of the enemy as efficiently as we can while losing as few of our own as possible. And every night when I try to sleep I know that I am condemning the innocent as well as the guilty. But doing nothing would be worse.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said slowly. ‘I found myself an easy billet in both wars, didn’t I? Feeding people. Needed to be done, no question. Left others to make the hard decisions.’

  He smiled. ‘I don’t think what you’ve done in either war has been easy.’

  ‘Hard on the feet, but easy on the conscience.’

  ‘I do love you, Ethel. Will you marry me?’

  She stared at him. ‘First time we meet in near three and a half years and you propose! Sure you didn’t get a bang on the head on the way down?’

  ‘Well, you might refuse to see me for another three and a half years,’ James said reasonably. ‘I need to take whatever chance I have. Look on the bright side — we might take a direct hit tonight and you’d only have to be engaged to me for a few hours.’

  ‘I’d make you a laughing stock,’ she told him bluntly.

  ‘Because fools giggled at a girl of your height when you were sixteen? Today you are statuesque and move with dignity.’

  ‘Because I’m Carryman’s Cocoa, and you’re game pie.’

  ‘I think that distinction is fading fast. Nor does the world’s opinion matter to either of us. I once assumed I needed to marry a hostess, a woman who would complement and support my career. Instead we both of us have achieved enough to continue with whatever we choose to do.’

  ‘James Lorrimer could marry the bearded lady from the circus and get away with it?’ She tried to turn the proposal into a joke.

  ‘Possibly. I admit I rather hope you don’t grow a beard, but I’d still love you if you did. It was love at first sight, I think, or at least by the end of the afternoon,’ he added. ‘Though it took me a while to recognise it.’

  ‘There’s many I love, but don’t want to marry. James, I’ve never been interested in the, you know, marital stuff. I’d disappoint you.’

  ‘It’s not one of my preoccupations either. You don’t find it repugnant?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just never felt the urge.’ She flushed. ‘Well, once or twice.’

  ‘A handsome sport’s master?’

  ‘You,’ she told him shortly.

  ‘Ethel, there is so much I’m trying not to say. I don’t want to say I need you, that I have lost my family and now my home and, even worse, that I am frightened I may lose my conscience. You could give me all of those.’

  ‘And fill your house with refugee families or doctors evading a warrant for handing out contraception or conscientious objectors? I’ll probably even take over Carryman’s Cocoa after the war — George won’t want it, and I’m beginning to think I’d be of more use organising food supplies for Britain outside the Ministry. I’d keep my own name for that.’

  ‘And I might vanish for six months to America, or Bermuda. I’m not asking you to share my whole life. No one can. I’d expect your days to stay as full as mine. But you’re right, this war will not end with peace but with more plasters, and, as I get swept up in whatever chaos follows, you will be the still centre of the spinning hurricane where reality and conscience waits.’

  He reached into his pocket. ‘Damn.’ The small box was dented. He opened it with effort. ‘Thank God.’

  The ring inside — dull gold, a square-cut emerald, with a diamond on each side — was undamaged. ‘I used one of your gloves to get the size right.’ He put the ring on the table, still in its box, making no attempt to offer it to her. She knew him well enough to know he was not trying to sway her with its brilliance. She could afford her own emeralds, if she had ever wanted them. A contraception clinic, a public library, a
dozen new latrines in the slums had always been far more desirable.

  Nor was he asking from loneliness. He had not been lonely in September 1939 when he’d first planned to ask her: then he’d still had his aunt, who died of influenza in ’41; his brother, killed in an air raid the previous February; his niece. He’d had Lily, too, and if he wanted sex when he had time for it and a hostess for his dinner parties, he had the choice of debutantes from the Ton, a new crop every year, and Lily to give him a list of suitable ones he might look over.

  She looked at his hands, clenched to stop them shaking. She knew there was only one answer she could give.

  Chapter 35

  Sauce Eglantine

  Pick your rosehips when they turn deep winter red and start to shrivel. Some varieties are larger and sweeter than others, but the size and redness are not necessarily a guide to sweetness and flavour. Briars, which are small, hard and orange, make an excellent Sauce Eglantine.

  Boil 6 cups of rosehips in as little water as possible. Press through a sieve or mouli. The seeds may be fed to hens. Add 1 cup white sugar and the juice of 3 lemons. If neither is available the sauce is still savoury. Simmer till thick. Serve with roast mutton or any fried food, or with potatoes baked in their jackets.

  A family recipe of the Prinzessin Hannelore

  SOPHIE

  Her new bedroom looked down upon the lake, across to mountains veined with snow and trees brightening with green leaf tips. It felt strange to suddenly have the freedom to walk where she wished about the Lodge, though movement was still painful.

  But the pain no longer frightened her. It was easing and there had been no infection. The scars would fade, even if the memory did not. There was no need to hide the need to hobble, to wince as she bent over. The background Dolphie had chosen for her allowed for injuries, and even her lack of possessions.

  Breakfast was served with ceremony again, even if it was Hannelore who carried their tray to the breakfast room, chilly without its stove lit, but brightened with a mural of deer leaping across the ceiling, and the view of the lake again, clad in wind ruffles and sunlight, out the window.