Winter Roses (21 page)

‘You can’t do that, Mother, while there is danger of air raids.’ Laurence was appalled. ‘You must go to Wiltshire to Charles’s family.’

Oh, glory be. Elizabeth could hardly believe it. He was siding with her. Just as he had over their wedding. ‘I shall return to Dover.’

He tried one last time. ‘I ask you, Mother, to reflect. Mrs Dibble has done all the work to establish these courses. Miss Lewis would not dispute that she should therefore have priority. It is a small thing I ask of you.’

‘I never change my mind, Laurence. I shall leave.’

Elizabeth felt close to tears. Oh, the obstinacy of some people. Thank goodness Laurence was his mother’s son.

‘Very well, Mother. Please write to the board, and I will make arrangements for your departure.’

On the stairs, Myrtle was agog with excitement, able to hear every word that was being said. She rushed downstairs to impart the good news to Mrs Dibble.

‘You’re going to Tunbridge Wells. The old hag is leaving.’

‘Myrtle, what are you talking about? I told you not to repeat gossip.’

‘It’s not gossip. It’s true. She’s going. You’re going.’

Margaret fastened on the one salient point she understood. ‘She’s leaving? Well I never did.’ The Good Lord sent some splendid miracles and no mistake.

‘She’s going back to Dover, because Rector put his foot down about you. He didn’t want her to go,’ Myrtle chattered on, ‘but she wouldn’t change her mind. He was ever so upset.’

‘Dover? With all them air raids?’ Margaret did an unusual thing. She left the egg whites half-whipped, took off her apron, went into the main house and up the stairs to Lady Buckford’s sitting room. The door was open and Rector had gone. Just as well. This was between her and Lady B.

‘Begging your pardon, your ladyship.’ She knocked on the door.

‘Yes, my good woman?’

Margaret swallowed hard. The Rector’s mother was like something out of Dickens, all black, claw-like hands on the arms of the wing chair. ‘I heard as how you were leaving the Rectory.’

‘How dare you interfere in my personal business?’

Margaret grew bold. ‘From what I hear it’s my business too. I just wanted to say I don’t want you to leave over me doing those lectures, I’d rather you stayed, and Miss Lewis did them.’

‘Why? Don’t you want to organise the demonstrations?’ The beady eyes fastened on her sharply.

Margaret thought about not answering, but decided the old besom should know just how she felt. ‘Yes, ma’am, I want to do them very much, but I don’t want your blood on my conscience because of them bombs, and I don’t want …’

‘What, may I ask?’ Lady Buckford snapped as Margaret halted.

‘… the Rectory upset because of me.’

She turned round and marched out, head held high, already planning a half-pay pudding like her mother used to do, for her next demonstration in the picture palace. To make up for the treacle (standing in for sugar) and for the wodge of suet, milk and breadcrumbs unlivened by dried fruit, she’d show them a nice sauce, not just a blob of consip or saccharine jam.

By late January, with the snow and frosts not letting up, and having to battle in person at the shops to establish the Rectory’s precedence for food (not that she put it that way to Mrs Lilley), Margaret felt as dispirited as Percy’s last brandy bottle. Empty, gone, and when would this gloomy old life produce some more? There’d been another upset in the Rectory. Miss Phoebe had left unexpectedly. She had bounced in, looking happy for the first time in months, to tell her all about it – to get her reaction before telling her father, no doubt. Apparently she’d been learning to drive with that Miss Swinford-Browne in East Grinstead, and having done so she had joined the Women’s Legion Motor Transport Section, which she said the government might turn into a division of the Army, like with Miss Burrows. She was off to London to start training, and three days later she had gone.

Margaret’s heart went out to Mrs Lilley, and after the mistress had returned from waving Miss Phoebe off at the station, she went to the morning room to show her that one thing wasn’t changing in the Rectory. Her routine.

‘How many for dinner tonight, madam?’

Mrs Lilley looked very, very tired. ‘It’s just us now, Mrs Dibble. Her ladyship will eat in her rooms as usual, so it’s just the Rector and myself.’

‘What about Mrs Isabel, madam?’ Margaret was startled.

‘Oh, yes, Isabel will be here. I don’t count her.’

Mrs Lilley wasn’t herself or she would never had said such a thing, even if she thought it. But it was unfortunate for the mistress could not see, whereas Margaret could, that Mrs Isabel was standing in the doorway and must have heard every word.

Caroline’s boot slipped on the hard-packed ice, and Luke had to grab her to steady her. Three days earlier, Thursday 8th February had brought the severest frost for over twenty years, and January had produced never-ending snowstorms. At least the snowstorms had been fun; their aftermath of frost and ice was not. Despite the weather, at long last she was going to a Sunday night concert at the Leas Shelter, although it was not Yves but Luke who was escorting her.

Life was very contrary. She had tried to rediscover her sense of humour at its quirky little ways, but this evening, it seemed lost for ever, good company though Luke was. Even St Anthony couldn’t find it for her. Christmas had been a mirage which had lured her into seeing it as a turning point for a happier year ahead. What had seemed quite obvious then, that her love for Yves had not only revealed itself
to her but was reciprocated, had been mere self-deception. Their brief coming together had meant a short happiness, not a lifetime’s. Her gratitude to Yves for his companionship during the dark days of the autumn had led her to put more significance than she would otherwise have done on two kisses. Yes, that must have been the reason.

She couldn’t quite believe it, even now, for this explanation just did not seem to fit the facts. This new love for Yves had nothing to do with any she had had or might still have for Reggie. She had been almost frightened by the response his kisses aroused in her, dizzy with the realisation that life could change in a moment from bleakness to joy, from emptiness to fulfilment. She was in little doubt of her own feelings; what she had done was to misread Yves’. He had been merely comforting her when he kissed her; and it had been she who had asked him to kiss her again – he could hardly have refused – and the strength of her emotions had convinced her he shared them.

So where was he? Why was she clinging to her boss’s arm on this Sunday evening instead of to Yves’? She had seen him only once since Christmas – once in over six weeks. And even that had been in the office. He had dropped in to see Luke in the early days of the New Year, and stopped at her desk on his way out.

‘Caroline, you will forgive me I know, but I must discontinue our French lessons. I have to be away from Folkestone for some time – you understand?’ Had it not been for the fact his voice was intimate, that it was the voice of the Yves she had come to know and not that of
Captain Rosier, he might have been speaking to any of the office staff, so formal were his words.

She had stumbled out a reply in a similar vein, but she had felt her expression, which must have registered her delight at seeing him, stiffen. ‘Of course, Yves. How long will you be gone?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he replied quickly. Too quickly, and the first doubt had entered her mind – to be angrily dismissed. ‘There is, as you know, an increasingly large question mark over King Albert’s plans.’

Caroline did know. If President Wilson continued to hold out against involving America in the war, King Albert might well be tempted to accept the draconic terms of the Kaiser’s offer of peace. If he did, there would no longer be a Belgian army, the German occupying forces would remain, and Germany would maintain control of the transport system and harbours.

At that moment Captain Cameron had come in and whisked Yves back to his private office; later he escorted him to the front door. From the air of suppressed excitement, she had sensed there was some big flap on, which perhaps even Luke did not know about, let alone her humble self, but at the moment she did not care. She could hardly leave her desk and rush after Yves crying: ‘What about me?’ Instead, staring at her work, her eyes stung with the effort of control.

Since then Caroline had almost convinced herself that with the reports of slave labour drives in Belgium – 90,000 had gone in one week alone in December – as well as the lack of progress on the American front, Yves could well be
on an extended visit to King Albert. There would surely be a spring offensive, somewhere – that could be another reason for his absence. He would be discussing it at La Panne, and with British GHQ.

What was worse, their intelligence pointed to Ypres. Olivier Fabre had brought them worrying reports from the Ghent and Cambrai letter boxes that fresh divisions were pouring into Belgium by rail. With the help of the Brown Book, Luke had identified one of the divisions at least as coming from Romania, which meant a German crack division now that the Germans were advancing so rapidly there. Such a concentration of units was a clear sign of a brewing offensive, rather than mere relief of divisions in the line.

While she was at work these explanations of Yves’ absence satisfied her, but alone in her room at night (having faced her landlady’s inquisitive questions as to why the captain didn’t come any more – was it her high tea?) Caroline was forced to face the more likely truth: Yves, for whatever reason, had thought better of continuing what had so inevitably (it now seemed to her) begun at Christmas. So where now, Caroline? she asked herself ruefully. She wasn’t the same person who had discovered her love for Reggie in 1914; that was the Caroline who had grown up in Ashden and, had it not been for war, would still be there. Now Ashden could no longer cocoon her for ever – and nor could Reggie’s memory. It was this new Caroline who was so attracted to Yves, the one who was vainly telling herself that life was opening up, not closing in darkness around her.

As she turned off the gaslight (oh, the bliss of that, and yet how she missed the comforting candles and oil lamps of home) and climbed into bed, the huge pit of ache in her stomach cried out:
why
? Was she so dull, so unattractive, so uninteresting? Perhaps she was. She had a spot on her face that refused to go, and one of her back teeth was aching. Yves did not want this horrible lump called Caroline Lilley, she reasoned; very well, somebody, somewhere, surely
must
. But she could not believe it.

That had been over five weeks ago, and Yves had not yet returned to Folkestone. Very well, she had decided in a fit of defiance, this weekend I shall go to the Leas on my own. When Luke suggested she accompany him, however, she agreed with some relief. The building built into the cliffside had outside ‘decks’ at different levels leading off from the hall, and they were swarming with Tommies, Canadian soldiers, uniforms of all sorts. She felt out of place with her own civilian clothes, though with Luke in uniform she presumed she passed for a soldier’s girl, which was almost as patriotic. The audience was jammed shoulder to shoulder, and the chairs of the row in front were right up against her knees; the smell of tobacco and the noise contributed to the atmosphere, and the sense of unity, as they listened to the concert. Tomorrow evening, Caroline thought, she would still be in England but many of these soldiers would be in France, and the memory of this evening precious to them. As she and Luke walked back along the Leas, a group of Tommies all round them were whistling the
Merry Widow
waltz with a fervour that probably masked great fear.

Time was precious for her too, and she could hold back
no longer. ‘Have you heard anything from Yves, Luke?’ Even she could hear the slight wobble in the casualness of her voice, and Luke could hardly be blamed for picking it up too.

‘He’ll be back sometime, Caroline.’

There was comfort but little conviction in his voice. In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘Do you know where he is?’

‘I’ve a fair idea.’

‘Occupied Belgium?’ It had suddenly occurred to her that Yves might have gone to recruit more agents. Was he even now in St Gilles, the prison for political prisoners, undergoing interrogation by Schwarzteufel in the dreaded office in the Central Bureau of Espionage?

‘I doubt that, Caroline. Truly.’

Relief combined inevitably with the question rearing its painful head again.

Luke put his arm round her in affection. ‘I expect he’s with King Albert. There’s not a lot going on here at present. You know that, don’t you, Caroline?’

Yes, she did. Intelligence was sparse, and save for Olivier Fabre’s, useless. Speedier methods like aerial photographs – despite the loss to aeroplanes – were necessary for GHQ, both in London and Montreuil, and she had a nasty feeling GHQ was well aware of the fact.

Alarmingly, Luke seemed to agree, when she told him this. ‘My guess, Caroline, is that Yves is deeply involved at La Panne, and that when he returns he’ll be relying more on our sister London-run networks than with the bureau here, save for contact with the Belgian section. It could be we’re being gently dropped.’

‘Can’t we get more agents ourselves?’ Caroline was horrified.

‘It takes time for Fabre to find out who is and who is not compromised. Even with the checks we introduced of no one knowing their colleagues’ identity, there are so many German stool pigeons moving around, and so many forced to talk by the gentle methods used by the German Secret Police and Field Police that there are all too frequent arrests and executions. And we still don’t know the full extent of the damage from the ferry disaster, though Fabre is treating everyone as suspect till proven otherwise.’

Caroline tried to concentrate on the problem. At least it took her mind off Yves. ‘Do the other intelligence organisations have the same problem?’

He shrugged, then slipped on the ice himself, nearly dragging them both down. ‘How could I know? But I suspect so because we all attract the same odd folks. Those we pay, anyway, not the true patriots.’

‘All the world is odd excepting you and me and even you’re a little strange,’ she quipped. The old adage had been a favourite of Reggie’s. ‘Is this what you were discussing when you visited GHQ in France at Christmas – or was that just an excuse to bring Felicia home?’

‘How would you like to sit down suddenly in an icy snow drift?’

She laughed. ‘Felicia was happy at Christmas.’

‘I know.’

‘You’re very confident, aren’t you, Luke?’

‘I have to be.’

‘Even though you must know Felicia still hasn’t forgotten Daniel?’

She had bravely tackled Felicia once more on the subject before she went back to France, feeling she had a right to do so since she worked with Luke. Felicia had finally answered: ‘I love Daniel, I love Luke. But my love for Daniel is part of me.’

‘I don’t think, Caroline,’ Luke replied, seriously for once, ‘that Lissy will ever marry Daniel. Whether she marries me is another question, but it’s a question I have to answer with yes. See?’

Caroline squeezed his arm in reply. She did see.

‘It’s not a matter of whom one prefers nowadays, Caroline,’ Luke continued, ‘war doesn’t allow such luxury. In pre-war days one could dance with an Angela or Big Bertha, kiss Catherine, reject Doris. It was all within one’s control. Once war came striding in, it declared itself as an arbiter. It decided you weren’t going to marry Reggie; I believe it’s also going to decide whether Daniel or I marries Lissy. We’re controlled by it. The most I can do is to try to nudge it along in the direction I want. I’ve no idea why Daniel can’t make up his mind – that’s if he loves her. Maybe he doesn’t.’

‘He does. And I don’t know either.’

They had arrived at her front door. Luke hugged her, kissed her cold cheeks, and then her lips. ‘One for Felicia,’ he told her matter-of-factly, ‘one for Yves.’

‘How did you know—?’ she began.

‘One can’t be in love oneself and not see it in others.’

‘In Yves?’

He planted a final kiss on her forehead. ‘I’m not war, Caroline. It must speak for itself. Go to bed, and sleep deeply. No dreams.’

She was glad to be back for the wedding in the Rectory on the 24th. It reminded her of Eleanor’s wedding almost a year ago, especially since to her surprise Beth asked her to be her bridesmaid. The ‘small’ wedding had expanded to between thirty and forty guests. Caroline came back on the Friday evening, so that she could help Mrs Dibble with the food preparation, while Agnes and Myrtle were flying round doing their best to smarten up the Rectory. She wondered if Mrs Dibble would launch into a lament about the cookery lectures, having heard all about the hullabaloo from her mother. When there was no word, she decided it would be prudent not to remind her, though she was fiercely on her side.

Unfortunately, Friday was the first day of a government food-economy initiative, bringing a moral dilemma over whether sausage rolls should be prepared for the Saturday.

‘Meatless day, indeed,’ Mrs Dibble snorted. ‘We’ve been having them at the Rectory for the last year. Good job I showed the ladies how to make a tasty vegetable pie—’ She broke off, suddenly tight-lipped, and Caroline hastily congratulated her on the cocoa-butter cakes, her latest idea to get round the butter shortage. (The Sharpes at Home Farm were having one of their periodic sulks and pretending all their spare went to the Dower House and the hospital.)

How odd to be preparing food for Philip’s wedding.
Philip had wanted to marry Caroline two years ago, and irrespective of that she hadn’t much cared for Beth Parry at first. Now she liked her, and considered she would make an excellent wife for Philip.

‘Nothing fancy,’ she had warned Caroline. ‘I won’t wear my white doctor’s coat, and no silks and satins for you.’ Beth’s fair hair was usually held back in a bun, and she wore severe suits or skirts and blouses. For her wedding, however, she was planning to wear an afternoon dress with full and fashionably short shirt in dark green wool and a frothy sort of hat swathed in tulle in which Caroline suspected Janie Marden must have had a hand. A straightforward, no-nonsense girl, Janie had an amazingly skittish way with fashioning new hats out of old, and no one would look askance at a little frivolity on a wedding day.

It was cold in St Nicholas despite the paraffin heaters the verger had brought in, and Caroline was glad to get back to the comparative warmth of the Rectory. Among the guests was Timothy Marden, on leave from the RNAS at Dover, and having heard George was now in the RFC came over to her to enquire about his progress.

‘He’s still doing his service training at Upavon.’