Winter Roses (26 page)

‘But you weren’t happy.’

‘No. The dancer wanted riches, Annette-Marie wanted shelter and protection. I gave them to her, but she gave nothing to me.’

‘No children?’ She managed to get the word out.

‘No. She gave
nothing.
The marriage was never consummated.’

He spoke so matter-of-factly she did not at first realise what he’d said. When she did, she reached out to take his hand. ‘Why, Yves?’ she asked quietly. ‘Did she not want children?’

‘No. She didn’t want me. She has –’ he hesitated ‘– a great fear of love.’

‘And nothing can be done?’ She meant to help his wife, but he misunderstood.

‘I am bound to her. My church does not believe in divorce, and I, alas, do believe in honour. I could not put her through the pain of seeking an annulment, after what she did for me when I most needed it, nor after what she is undoubtedly suffering as my wife in German-held Belgium. Now, do you see, Caroline, why I went away?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have brought pain to you, when I thought by leaving so quickly I could avoid doing so, that two light kisses would be easily forgotten.’

‘They are not.’

She put her arms round him, and he relaxed towards her. She tried so hard to think at this worst of times. In the end it was not difficult, for she already knew.

‘It doesn’t matter, Yves. I want to be yours anyway.’

‘No. Tomorrow I must go,
cara.
’

‘Then tonight. Can’t we have that together?’ she cried, unable to believe he could mean it.

‘No,’ he said harshly.

‘But—’

‘I would never find the strength to leave you again,’ he interrupted. ‘And I have to return to London. Luke tells me you have realised there is something wrong with the intelligence you are receiving from Captain Cameron’s networks. You are right, and that is another reason I must go.’

‘Won’t I see you again?’

‘I could not bear it, Caroline. We men are not so strong.’ ‘If you won’t love me, will you stay with me until the morning?’

‘Yes.’

Seeing how his hands trembled as he turned out the gas, she made a supreme effort to help him, surmounting her own pain. ‘But I don’t want waterzooi for breakfast.’

Caroline had leapt at the idea of the annual tennis match when her mother diffidently suggested it. It could not be so harrowing as last year, and she would not be sorry to leave Folkestone for two days. The townspeople and military authorities were both still recovering from the catastrophe of 25th May, and like many others every time she went into the town centre, she found herself constantly looking up to see whether the sky was criss-crossed with unfamiliar aeroplane formations; every aeroplane that passed over brought a sigh of relief. On 5th June it had been Sheerness’s turn, and eleven days ago Margate and London.

They were all Gotha raids, the new German aeroplane which had taken them unawares in May. No wonder no one had recognised them. They would now. The word Gotha had replaced Zeppelin in the language of fear. The toll in London had been 162 killed and 432 injured. Sixteen of
the dead had been young children in a school at Poplar, and this had added to the nightmares which still besieged her. The Zeppelins hadn’t given up, however. Three days after the London raid they were back.

Rumours were still flying back and forth about the scale of the horror in Folkestone, but it seemed over ninety were dead and nearly two hundred injured. The coroner’s inquest held the day after the raid had been highly emotional, and grief had united the town ever since. Caroline had not been able to bear to visit Tontine Street, where the greatest loss of life had been, since that day. Mr Hall, the friendly pork butcher had died, so had Mr Stokes and his son, and Mr Gosnold. She had known none of these men well, but they had been part of her daily life. Now war had plucked them away. Just as it had Reggie, just as it had Yves.

Perhaps the tennis match would give her a breathing space to think calmly. Her mother was waving a letter, when Caroline walked in, after an agonisingly slow and crowded train journey from Folkestone to the Wells. ‘We’ve heard from George,’ she cried jubilantly. It was 22nd June and they had had no letters since late in May. Her mother promptly burst into tears. ‘He’s still writing about the death of Albert Ball and about how marvellous the other fellows are. Nothing about himself, save that he’s having a “topping time”.’

‘That’s good news,’ Caroline said firmly.

‘Yes. Oh, what a splendid day, and Phoebe wrote yesterday to say she had driven Harry Lauder to a camp concert, and weren’t these music-hall stars fun? Your father pulled a face but he could hardly say he would prefer her to
do Felicia’s job, could he? So everything’s wonderful, and you’re home too, and now we can enjoy the tennis match,’ Elizabeth finished happily.

She
would
enjoy it, Caroline vowed. No matter that for the first time she felt like a visitor to the Rectory, for no longer could all her problems and worries be poured out to her parents or sisters. What had happened between her and Yves was battened down within her. No one could help save she herself. And she would. If the rest of her life had to be spent without Yves, then she might as well start getting used to the fact. Enjoying the tennis match was a tiny but important start.

Isabel, to Caroline’s surprise, was in charge. Her sister’s interest in tennis before the war had been minimal, but now she was enthusiastically organising the whole afternoon. Perhaps it was because of her
rapprochement
with the absent Robert, Caroline thought hopefully, pushing out of her mind the unworthy suspicion that Isabel must meet a lot of the officers from The Towers at the picture palace. She hardly recognised her sister. She was looking happy, far from the moody Isabel of last winter. Furthermore, her interest in high fashion seemed to have lessened, and instead of the ornate creations she had worn for the last two years, regardless of economy, she was in serviceable plain green linen.

‘Have you heard from Robert, Isabel?’ In April he had joined No. 25 Balloon Section in Flanders, and as Caroline had feared, the new offensive was clearly about to start at Ypres. On the 7th, there had been a massive strike to throw the Germans off the Messines Ridge, preceded by the greatest bombardment yet and the explosion of massive mines set
under the ridge by months of tunnelling work. Felicia had written as soon as she could, and described the great black cloud on top of the red columns of flame that shot into the sky. The earth was shaking for miles around, and they had treated hundreds of dazed soldiers incapable of rational action. ‘They say there’s no such thing as shell-shock; they should have been at Messines Ridge.’

The ridge had been taken, however, and when the main offensive began, it would be with much greater hope than had seemed possible earlier this year.

And what then if Belgium were freed? Caroline had heard nothing from Yves, nor had she expected to. They had parted, and she would never see him again, but that did not stop her worrying about him. Again her secret dread returned that he was in occupied Belgium, perhaps he had even managed to evade arrest and visit his wife – the knife twisted in the wound.

‘I’ve drawn you, Caroline.’

Philip strolled up looking pleased, though he had little cause to, she pointed out. She was not good at tennis, although not quite so bad as Isabel. Isabel had had no difficulty finding players this year, both female and male, since The Towers’ officers were only too happy to oblige. Unfortunately one was called away this morning, and Percy Dibble had been the only solution, to Caroline’s amusement. He looked very unhappy indeed – and she was even more amused when she found he’d drawn Isabel as a partner.

‘Agnes, you mind what you’re doing with that butter. Save on bread, save on fats. Spread thin, my girl.’

There was no rancour in Margaret’s voice, she felt as proud as a turkey cock getting all this organised. She might not have Miss Caroline at her beck and call like she used to, or Miss Phoebe and Master George rushing through the kitchen like express trains, but life went on, and new faces were taking their place. Elizabeth Agnes was sitting on a stool at the table, ‘helping’ to whip cream. Myrtle was laying out the cutlery on the garden tables. Agnes was busy with the sandwiches. Everything was all right. When the war ended, Lizzie would still have her baby, even if it would have two fathers; Joe and Muriel would be popping in with their kiddies and Fred would be whistling around doing the lamps or out in his workshop, happy as the day is long. Having the tennis party was like lighting a candle in the window to tell them the Rectory was keeping the flag flying. She’d do her best to give as good a tea as she used to, despite the Kaiser sinking ships like he was drowning flies, and then they’d all come marching home safe and sound. What were a few meatless days, or potatoless days? What was rationing if it happened, come to that? She could put up with it all.

Myrtle came in; she said it was to find a few more spoons, but really she was agog to impart her news. ‘Those Land Army ladies says the government’s bought Castle Tillow.’

‘Prime Minister going to live there, is he?’ If looks could kill, Myrtle would fall down dead. Didn’t she ever think before she spoke? Agnes wouldn’t want to be reminded of Castle Tillow with what she’d been through.

Myrtle shook her head. ‘It’s going to be a hostel for the Land Army girls.’

‘Well I never did.’ Then seeing Agnes was quiet, Margaret said to her: ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts. Cleaned out, dried out, and made all nice for the girls will be a good thing.’

‘Yes,’ Agnes agreed. ‘But I’m not going back there.’

‘You’d better not, Agnes. The Rectory would come to a full stop.’

Agnes blushed, pleased at the compliment, especially considering where it came from.

Two hours later Margaret surveyed her finished handiwork. It looked, she was forced to admit, a sorry sight compared with what she could remember at the beginning of the war, but she cheered herself it was a feast by today’s standards. Dried fruit had to be dropped into cakes like milestones. Eleven ships had been sunk in a week and one of them must have been carrying her currants.

Caroline, having as usual been knocked out of the first round (together with Isabel and Percy, to his evident relief), sprawled on the grass, listening to the familiar and reassuring pit-pat of the balls. Caroline had executed the best backhand of her life today, and that was cheering. She felt an odd woman out here, for strangers outnumbered friends and family, and to her relief there had been no talk of the usual dance this evening. She’d go over to sit with Nanny Oates later, to give Isabel a rest. Nanny had wanted to go back home, but it had proved impossible to find someone to care for her full time, and she was annoyed at having to remain at the Rectory. She was regaining speech, but still could not look after herself.

Isabel flopped down beside her.

‘It’s a success, isn’t it?’ she asked, delighted with herself.

‘Yes, thanks to you,’ Caroline obediently and truthfully replied.

Isabel glowed. ‘If only Robert were here.’

‘He’d be proud of you.’

‘I wish he’d come home on leave.’

‘It’s rather soon. In the autumn perhaps.’

‘I want a baby.’

‘
What?
’

Isabel giggled. ‘Robert didn’t want a baby while the war was on, and made sure we didn’t have one. But I’m tired of waiting. I’m going to tell him so next time. After all, I shall be twenty-nine next January.’

‘Hardly a doddering crone yet.’

‘No,’ Isabel replied happily. ‘I’m still beautiful, aren’t I?’

‘It all went very nicely, I thought, didn’t you, Margaret?’ Agnes announced with satisfaction. She didn’t often call her that; it must be relief it was all over. She was looking very well, Margaret thought. Must be her Jamie coming home on leave in May. Then she realised!

‘Agnes Thorn, are you expecting?’ she asked severely.

Agnes blushed. ‘I may be. I didn’t want to tell anyone till I knew.’

Margaret sighed. ‘Well I never. What we’re going to do, I don’t know. The less people there are in this Rectory, the more work it seems to take. Not that I’m not pleased, mark you. It’s time that little miss had a brother or sister.’

‘I can work for ages yet,’ Agnes protested. ‘Of course, I
couldn’t expect Mrs Lilley to have another baby under the roof. I’ll have to leave.’

‘Leave?’ Margaret snorted. ‘No one leaves the Rectory. We’ll have to talk it over when you’re sure. And don’t go lifting heavy weights like that, my girl,’ seeing Agnes carting a tray-load of heavy crockery into the scullery. ‘What do you think Percy’s for?’

She finished the washing-up with Myrtle, congratulating herself that everything had indeed gone well. She could do a demonstration one day on how to give parties in wartime. It would make a change from lecturing them about their waste bins and not peeling carrots and potatoes too thick. Percy hadn’t done too bad; he’d even won one game with her eye on him and was quite proud of himself.

As Margaret put the last saucepan away, she remembered her post. She’d never opened it what with everything going on. ‘Mr and Mrs Dibble’ it was addressed, which meant her. She was like one of them Roman emperors’ food tasters, where joint post was concerned. It wasn’t like the yellow telegram she dreaded day in and day out, and which everyone feared. She hadn’t had one and Fred hadn’t been in the casualty lists either. The Lord was looking after him, just as she’d prayed.

She opened the letter.

Caroline was glad she had taken Ahab with her to the forest, on the pretext that he needed exercise. The gardens were usually quite large enough for an ageing dog. She remembered that Yves had walked this way last year, and for much the same reasons – his own company in preference
to that of strangers. Much of the forest had been taken over for army camps, but it was still possible to wander alone and take pleasure in its woods and heathland, now in full summer bloom.

It was a summer’s evening meant for lovers, but she resolutely put this out of her mind. One path through life was to be closed for her; there were others, as many paths as there were in the forest, criss-crossing each other and interwoven. At the moment she was on the path she loved best, the Rectory path. That, at least, was what she tried to believe, but at times it was impossible as a flood of misery overwhelmed her and had to be fought off.

She returned just in time for supper. Once upon a time it was
de rigueur
to change – not into full evening dress unless they were going to Ashden Manor, but into something different and smarter than their daytime dress. It was no longer frowned upon, however, to come straight into dinner from one’s daily work, if time did not permit changing, though her mother had told her with some glee of Father’s reaction when last week during the hay harvest Chalk and Cheese had come in to the dining room in their smocks and
breeches.
He had been very polite and apologised to them for having adhered to the same time for dinner which had not allowed them time to change. They had accepted his apology, but not taken the hint. Two days later, she had been forced to have a more open word with them.

As Caroline went into the Rectory through the garden door, she almost collided with her mother. ‘Have you seen Mrs Dibble, Caroline? It’s almost time for dinner and Agnes is coping alone. Nothing seems to have been done
and Percy hasn’t seen her anywhere. She’s not in her room, not in the kitchen or the servants’ hall, and nowhere in the house. It’s most worrying.’

‘Gone to the village stores?’ Caroline suggested.

‘Not according to Agnes.’

‘Has Percy searched the gardens?’ Caroline asked practically. ‘Perhaps she’s tripped over in the vegetable garden and hurt herself.’

‘I think Percy went there. He’s gone down to the village in case anyone’s seen her there.’

‘I’ll have another look here.’

Caroline pushed Ahab back into the house and ran down to the vegetable gardens. There was no sign of Mrs Dibble. Perhaps she was visiting her old store? This was a tin-lined trunk hidden half buried behind the potting shed. It was supposed to have been emptied years ago (when Father discovered she had been hoarding), but Caroline had noticed it still received the odd surreptitious visit. Mrs Dibble wasn’t there.