Winter Roses (16 page)

‘Yet you do not laugh much, Yves,’ Caroline pointed out bluntly. ‘Do you have a family still in Belgium?’

She
had
gone too far, for she saw his lips draw together in a tight line. She thought he would not answer, but eventually he did. ‘I have my parents; also a brother, serving like me in the Belgian army, but he is on the Belgian front, waiting.’

‘For what?’

‘Like your sister, for the next offensive there. It will come, believe me. King Albert fears it, and has written in the most strong terms to protest for he believes it would
ruin Belgium for ever. But His Majesty is not even accorded a seat at the Allied military discussions. It is insupportable. It is known to GHQ and to the governments of America, Britain and France, though not to the public, that His Majesty has not ruled out a negotiated peace with Germany to avoid more slaughter and the ruin of our fair land.’

Caroline was horrified. ‘You don’t approve of that, surely?’

‘This humble captain believes that Germany would demand Belgium’s complete economic dependence on her, which effectively means we would remain occupied in spirit if not physically. He also believes that Field Marshal Haig, this new French commander Nivelle, and perhaps even the bashful President Wilson, who does not show his face in this war, know that Ypres will be the battleground for Armageddon.’

She did not comment, for she had her wish. He was speaking about what he felt most deeply and even if she felt with Queen Victoria that ‘she was not a public meeting’, she must listen if she wanted to know more about Yves. And she did. A great deal more.

When she returned to her room that evening, she looked out of the window into the street below. Nothing to be seen here, the hum of voices, a faint glow from a dim headlight. Somewhere out there in the dark was Yves. She still did not know where he lived, and yet he had held her hands and told her she was beautiful.

December began without the anticipation of Christmas providing its usual excitement. The village, so her mother
had written, was predicting a long, hard winter ahead, and late November had brought two new shocks for Caroline. On the 22nd she had read in the newspaper to her horror of the torpedoing in the Aegean of the
Britannic
, which she was almost sure was the hospital ship on which her friend Penelope Banning had been working as a Red Cross nurse. Tired of the constrictions of English life after her time in Serbia, she had volunteered her services yet again. She had immediately telephoned Simon, only to find he was in the dark as to Penelope’s fate. There were casualties, there were survivors, but her name did not show on the list. He still did not know.

The other shock had been in the section office. When she walked in one morning, it had been immediately obvious something was wrong. Every single file seemed to be piled up on desks, each pile with someone rapidly going through it, and some of the faces she did not know. Others she did – they were from the French and Belgian sections. Captain Cameron himself was down there, and even Luke’s mask of casual bonhomie had slipped.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked in alarm, as soon as she could reach him.

‘It’s bad news, Caroline. The ship was intercepted by German warships from Zeebrugge.’

‘The Flushing Ferry?’ Stupid question. Of course it was. Why else would the office present such a scene of pandemonium? In addition to couriers not only from theirs, but from the French and Belgian sections too, it would have been carrying bags of compromising mail.

‘All the secret baggage was thrown overboard to
prevent the Germans getting it if they boarded, but the devils managed to scoop up at least one of our bags before it sank.’

‘Is it as serious as the sinking of the
Brussels
?’

‘Oh yes, it’s serious. It’s Baer-le-duc all over again.’

Everyone in the joint bureau knew about Baer-le-duc. It was a tiny Belgian village completely surrounded by neutral Holland, not far from the Belgian–Dutch border. The Germans could not therefore occupy it, much to their annoyance, and a remarkable number of deceased Belgians near the frontier had, according to their families, expressed that their dying wish was to be buried in unoccupied Belgium. Each funeral procession, including the coffin, was carefully searched by the Germans before it left, and again at the frontier, but nothing was ever discovered. The cemetery at Baer-le-Duc was soon filled to capacity, and three more fields had hastily to be consecrated. At last an extra diligent search disclosed ingenious methods of concealing agents’ reports such as a tube inserted down the corpse’s throat. Many executions had followed, the frontier checks were strengthened, Baer-le-Duc returned to its normal funeral rate – and the Allied intelligence services began the task of rebuilding shattered networks.

‘We have to start again?’ she asked Luke.

Luke’s normally cheerful face was grey. ‘Worse. It could well mean the end of this little operation.’

It had begun to snow again, but it hadn’t brought any manna from heaven down with it. Margaret Dibble sniffed, as she inspected the recipe Miss Caroline had sent her for wartime Christmas pudding. Say what you like, a pudding made with raw potato and carrot with only half a cup of dried fruit was not a real pudding, and Christmas was not Christmas without a real pudding. Anyway, even though she’d had the fruit and flour to make one proper pudding, there had been no one to stir it. She’d called Agnes and Myrtle in, and even Percy, though he was a fat lot of use with a spoon, but Myrtle started stirring widdershins, as if they hadn’t had enough bad luck. Miss Caroline still wasn’t sure if she’d be able to get home for Christmas, and Margaret supposed she couldn’t be blamed for that. The war didn’t stop just because three wise men and some shepherds once made their way towards Bethlehem.

Christmas was only two weeks away now, but she couldn’t muster up the usual sense of excitement. No Fred, no Joe, only Lizzie, and even Muriel was going to her parents in Withyham. Not that the Dibbles were alone in this. There was no Miss Felicia, and Mrs Isabel would only be here part of the time, because Mr Robert was coming home and wanted to spend Christmas with his parents. It was only natural, but Mrs Isabel didn’t see it that way. Moaning and groaning, you’d think she had been asked to go to Australia instead of East Grinstead. Miss Phoebe would be here, but she’d been very quiet since Master George had enlisted. It was his birthday today, poor lamb, and he received his papers this very day. He’d be leaving in the New Year.

‘Ma Dibble!’

Margaret promptly dropped the recipe into the mixing bowl. Whatever had happened? That was Muriel’s voice, and sure enough the door burst open and Muriel came in bringing half the snowstorm with her. It must be the children. Or Joe? He was dead, she knew it. Must be for Muriel to have come with the carrier or by train all the way from Hartfield. Muriel was waving a piece of paper too! It must be the yellow telegram, for tears were streaming down Muriel’s face. Then Margaret realised the tears weren’t of sorrow but of happiness, and her stomach stopped churning up like a mincing machine.

‘Joe!’ Muriel cried. ‘He says he’s been lucky in the draw for Christmas leave. He’s come home, for three whole days, so we’ll be coming here on Christmas Day.
Oh, Ma.’ She flung herself into Margaret’s arms, most un-Muriel like. ‘It’s going to be a
wonderful
Christmas.’

It was going to be a
wonderful
Christmas. Firstly, Penelope was safe. At the last moment, she had been switched from the
Britannic
to land duties. Secondly, Caroline had heard that she would be able to have leave for Christmas even though Luke would also be away. She had been so busy since the ferry incident that she not been able to visit the Rectory as the bureau had been at sixes and sevens, as no one could be sure who or what had been compromised in Belgium. Information was coming in in dribs and drabs, and as the ferry service had been suspended, they had to rely on whatever transport the couriers could find. It was a serious matter now that the bad weather had halted the impetus at the Somme and Verdun. Winter was a friend to peace, Yves said. It had defeated Napoleon; if only it could manage the same trick with the Kaiser.

In addition to the pandemonium caused by the ferry incident, Caroline was also aware that something else was going on, something in which minions were not invited to join. Luke was spending more time than usual with the French and Belgian sections, and when she visited them herself, she noticed an air of suppressed excitement.

Gradually the sea of faces who came to their office had separated itself into distinct personalities. There was Guy, a regular courier from Holland who acted as a postbox near the frontier in Belgium and, when that was too heavily guarded, on the seashore for night-time deliveries from the sea. He was a placid, bespectacled man whom in peacetime
one might expect to see behind a bank counter. There was Jean-Claude, a morose fisherman, who brought his boat over once a month, sometimes with verbal or written reports, occasionally with refugees or agents who feared themselves compromised. ‘Agents’ were seldom like those that enlivened spy novels; they were railway workers, housewives, tradespeople, just ordinary people apparently leading everyday lives. The train-watching agents kept continuous shifts, night and day, and were always at risk. One elderly lady, Madame Stevens, communicated through a code of knitting stitches, rather like the darned sock method, and was able to give them interesting information such as that on the railway line from Liège to Louvain – beneath her window a whole German artillery division had been transported in thirty-one trains, following each other at set intervals.

Caroline had taken a particular fancy to Olivier Fabre, a small ferret-like man with glittering eyes, who had a stream of curses far beyond the scope of her French and spoke virtually no English. Indeed, apart from his curses he rarely spoke at all. So far she had gathered little about his role, since Luke was uncommunicative on the subject. She had not seen him for a month, however. His arrival was especially prized since he was a
passeur
, one of the paid agents who brought reports from the letter boxes and sometimes people from the interior through one of the
tuyaux
, their routes across the frontier, a task that involved India rubber gloves and shoes and a great deal of courage.

She had not seen Yves recently either, and was delighted
when he called in to suggest she accompany him to see
Disraeli
at the cinema that evening.

‘I have an even better idea,’ she said impulsively. ‘It’s my brother’s birthday and I can’t get home for it, so let me treat you to dinner at the Metropole to celebrate it. They haven’t made treating of food illegal – yet.’

He hesitated. ‘I will come with pleasure, but I must—’

‘Oh, Yves. Let me pay.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve been helping to fight for women’s rights for so long, and now I’m earning money. I deserve this victory.’

The Metropole on the Leas was a grand hotel in the old style, and dining there reminded her of the treats Aunt Tilly used to give her at the London Carlton on very special occasions. Like all hotels now, the clientele was dominated by uniforms. She had put on her best evening gown, in blue voile and lace, an acquisition of which she was guiltily proud. (After all, what was earning money
for
, but the occasional treat?) She was glad she had done so for most of the other women diners were resplendent in satins and silks. The food revealed there was a war on, however, with the menu abbreviated and uninspiring, but nevertheless it was better than anywhere else.

‘I’ve something else to celebrate too,’ she told Yves happily, as a rather small trout arrived before her. ‘I’m going home for Christmas.’

Seeing an instant reaction, she was annoyed with herself for her tactlessness. ‘How selfish of me. What will you do?’

‘I am expecting someone from Belgium.’

‘Oh.’

Why did she feel so deflated? She should rejoice for
him. She was so used to thinking of Yves as her friend alone, that she forgot he must have many, many friends. And family too. He wasn’t married, but perhaps this was a sweetheart who had managed to escape over the frontier, or perhaps worked for Queen Elizabeth, who ran a hospital at Poperinghe. To think she had had the wild idea that if he were on his own he could come with her to the Rectory. Of course he would have plans of his own.

‘Will you be in Folkestone?’ she asked.

Yves looked embarrassed. ‘No. Sir John Hunney has invited us to stay at the Dower House, since Daniel has to work and cannot be there.’

Caroline’s head spun. She began to feel distinctly put out, without any reason whatsoever. ‘Then as the Hunneys always come to us for Christmas Day after the service, you must come too. Father would understand if you preferred to attend Mass in Hartfield. That’s the nearest Roman Catholic church.’

‘You must not feel obliged to entertain me. But I should be honoured to attend St Nicholas, even if His Holiness the Pope excommunicates me. In fact, my friend is a Huguenot Protestant.’

‘Does she speak English?’ Caroline couldn’t think of anything else to say. The trout tasted most unappetising.

Yves looked at her in what might have been amusement. ‘
He
does, Caroline. As you will have guessed, it is one of our couriers.’

Oh, what a polite man he was, she thought, as the trout regained its appeal.

‘Olivier Fabre is a very special
passeur
,’ he continued.
‘He is a puppeteer and takes his marionettes round all the Belgian cities, where he collects reports from the letter boxes. Some come from local puppeteers, who give information by an elaborate code of stories and movements, which he notes down. He even takes his marionettes to the German Governor-General in Brussels and has, as a special favour, obtained a regular pass to neutral Holland signed by von Bissing himself. No India rubber gloves for him. He is presumed to be touring Holland at Christmas, but he will come here for a week before he returns.’

‘You must bring him to the Rectory too, of course,’ Caroline said warmly. She had had no idea about Fabre’s marionettes, but was not going to reveal her lack of status to Yves.

He still looked doubtful. ‘He is not—’ he stopped.

She knew immediately what he was going to say. ‘No one at the Rectory will understand his bad language. Not even me.’

He smiled. ‘I would enjoy coming very much, Caroline, if Sir John and Lady Hunney—’

‘They will come,’ Caroline interrupted, eager to remove obstacles, and again following his train of thought. ‘They have always come and that will not change, although Reggie will no longer be there.’

At the end of dinner, he thanked her formally for her hospitality. ‘In the New Year I shall repay you.’

‘You can repay me now,’ she instructed him in high glee. ‘You can’t escape yet. I’m longing to dance.’

All during the meal the sound of the orchestra in the adjacent ballroom had been luring her. It was hardly the
latest jazz band, but it was making a gallant attempt at some ragtime, and to her delight tangos no longer seemed to be frowned upon. Times were indeed changing. She hadn’t danced since she left London, save for local informal parties – and nowadays there were precious few of these – and her feet were tapping. She half thought Yves would refuse, but he informed her it would be his privilege. Hardly words of wild enthusiasm, but she would make him repent them.

‘It is not too much of an escape?’ she asked gravely.

‘I have decided,’ he replied equally gravely, ‘that since you are a work colleague, you do not come under the category of entertainment or pleasure.’

‘Captain Rosier,’ she declared, ‘you will eat your words.’

‘Then you will pay for that second dinner also, for I do not dance well.’

She was bound to admit he was right, but how she enjoyed it all the same. Dancing to ragtime was a new and bewildering experience for him until he began to get used to the rhythm, but in the waltzes he was more at home. What did he
do
in London? He couldn’t work all the time, surely, and these days you could hardly avoid ragtime if you tried. Whereas she now rarely gave a second thought to dancing clasped by men she hardly knew, she became acutely aware of her closeness to Yves. The warmth of the hand on her back was comforting, the excitement of dancing with him making her tingle from head to foot. Perhaps he felt it, for he suddenly looked down at her and smiled.

‘You dance well, Caroline. Better than I.’

‘You’re wrong.’

And indeed she began to believe it, until he attempted a tango. An overenthusiastic stride on his part and twist on hers landed them both on the floor, to the disapproval of the matron at whose feet they had landed. That made her giggle even more, but Yves, having picked her up, turned and bowed to the dowager whom Caroline belatedly recognised as a friend of her grandmother’s.

‘I wish to apologise, madam, for my invasion of your country.’

He must have charm for others as well as herself, for the frost on Mrs Carrington’s face melted as quickly as if he had held a candle to it.

When at last they emerged into the dark night, clad in galoshes and mackintoshes, the snow was driving fast against them. Perhaps she ought to get herself some puttees, which Felicia said she wore most of the time at the front.

‘No escape from General Winter,’ Caroline sighed as Yves battled to put up his umbrella.

The Leas, so high and pleasant a spot in summer, had presented a different face in this terrible autumn and winter. Snow and frost had come early, and before that gales lashed the seas at the bottom of the cliffs, and the winds drove over the open grassland of the Leas.

‘But I eat my words, Caroline.’ His voice was almost lost in the wind although he must have been shouting, and he took her arm to support her as a sudden gust of wind sent her staggering back and a blinding flurry of snow in her face.

‘Good.’ She missed her footing as they struggled
forward, and she felt her arm dragging his down. ‘And we agree a little pleasure does no harm.’

She thought for one moment he was shouting back ‘With you in my arms—’ but he couldn’t have been, he must have been repeating, ‘No harm.’

‘So the Rectory will see you at Christmas? I will not remind you and Olivier too much of work?’

He kissed her hand as he left her at the door of her lodgings. ‘No, Caroline, you will not do that.’

‘That’s splendid, Mrs Dibble. What good news.’ Mrs Lilley was delighted to hear about Joe.

What with a Christmas tree or two, and Miss Caroline coming home, and Miss Phoebe and Master George decorating the house, it would be just like old times. Miss Phoebe had been hard at work making paper decorations, as she used to years ago, and Master George had scoured the woods for cones and pinched only a little bit of greenery from Ashdown Forest. They didn’t officially have the right to cut it, it being some way away from the gates. Margaret had knitted a nice cardigan for Joe, and one for Fred, though goodness knows whether he would ever get his. The pudding mixture hadn’t tasted too bad, and Mrs Lettice had saved her some nice ham and a few extra currants, and what with Percy’s efforts in the garden over vegetables they wouldn’t starve. Wally Bertram had set aside two geese for her: one for the family and one for the servants’ hall.