Authors: Amy Myers
‘I have offended you, Miss Lilley, through my unsocial
behaviour. Also,’ he added, ‘because I am not this Reggie whom you seek.’
He smiled for the first time, and it changed his whole face. For a moment the bitterness vanished, and his eyes seemed fully focused on her, not on some inner concern of his own.
‘It was stupid of me to call out his name.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the past is the past, Captain Rosier, and unlike you I
do
believe in escape.’
His eyes gleamed in appreciation of her retort. ‘Tell me of yourself, Mademoiselle Lilley. Daniel has said very little.’
‘Quite right too. Reggie,’ she choked slightly, ‘is his brother.’
‘Tell me about
yourself
, not about this Reggie. Daniel mentions you are working in the cause of women helping the war effort here.’
Did she want to talk to him? Wouldn’t she much rather return to her friends and family? Eventually politeness decided the question. To remain silent any longer would put her in the wrong. ‘That cause is nearly won now that Lloyd George is on our side. If only he were Prime Minister
full
utilisation of womanpower would happen even more quickly. Meanwhile—’ She went on to describe what she was doing in Ashden, and on the Women’s War Agricultural Committee in East Grinstead. ‘The food shortage is worsening, Captain Rosier, and now farms are strained to their limit. I believe there is only one answer and so did Lord Milner in the war cabinet, when he reported to the government last year. More land. Every scrap of
waste or unused land will have to be ploughed up.’
‘You’re doing valuable work, Miss Lilley,’ he said, yet it had the effect of making her suddenly conscious she had been talking for a long time about something in which he could have little personal interest. She consoled herself that he had nevertheless been listening attentively.
‘Thank you.’ It was her turn to feel awkward.
‘However, you could work more directly for the war effort, if you wished to leave Ashden.’
‘You mean go to the front like Felicia, and nurse.’ Her opinion of him promptly sank again. ‘That’s not—’
‘No,’ he interrupted, ‘you are not like your sister. I have met Miss Felicia, and you are right, that life is not for you. Your heart is too warm and your discipline insufficient for her work.’
Caroline could not believe her ears; she was outraged at this familiarity. ‘You seem to know a great deal about me, Captain Rosier, from our two brief meetings,’ she replied acidly.
‘Three.’
With mixed feelings, she realised he too had thought in April that that had not been their first meeting. She had convinced herself she had been mistaken, yet here he was, about to tell her that there had been no such mistake.
‘Perhaps I should not remind you,’ he continued hesitantly, ‘of that evening when the Zeppelin bombs fell by the Gaiety Theatre. I was on my way to the home for Belgian refugees in Aldwych when the first one fell. I turned back, otherwise probably I should not be here now. You must have been caught in the blast but you were helping
the wounded. You needed a pair of hands to assist you that dark night and I offered mine. You did not take any notice of me. Why should you? But I watched your face, Miss Lilley, as I obeyed your commands. You were eager to help, and it did not seem to occur to you what danger you might be in had the Zeppelin returned to drop more bombs, or should the gas mains explode, as indeed one later did. I thought your face familiar when we met briefly in April. Only afterwards did I remember where I had seen it before.’
‘The refugee hostel in Aldwych was badly hit,’ Caroline managed to blurt out. He was right. She didn’t want to be reminded yet again of that terrible experience which still brought nightmares in its wake.
‘Yes, and many friends of mine died there. War pursues us Belgians from our homeland and seeks us out in every sanctuary – perhaps even in this idyllic place.’ He nodded towards the Rectory. ‘You are fighting a brave defensive battle here, but if you ever wish to join the offensive, I could offer you a job.’
‘Thank you.’ Shock was replaced with fury at his presumption. ‘Here in Ashden we
do
see our work as part of the offensive, Captain Rosier. Perhaps you could see your way now to accepting a glass of punch – before you leave.’
‘Thank you. I should like that.’ He did not seem discomposed by her snub, as he walked back with her across the gardens to join the rest of the party. Perhaps he did not recognise it as such, and she began to feel ashamed at her curtness. Nevertheless, she parted from him with relief, as her mother came hurrying up to her.
‘Where have you been, Caroline? It’s not like you to
leave me in the thick of battle.’ She was half serious, half joking. ‘Their two ladyships have declared war.’
Caroline laughed, glad of the diversion from her irritating encounter with Captain Rosier. ‘It will deflect Grandmother from annoying us. What started this off?’ She was making a determined attempt to reach the punchbowl, but her mother seemed equally determined to stop her, for she drew her aside from the crowd of people at the table.
‘The fact that Lady Hunney, being a generation younger than Grandmother, is always fashionably dressed,’ Elizabeth replied dolefully.
‘Grandmother is too.’
‘Well dressed. Expensively dressed, but not fashionably.’
‘There
is
no fashion now, except to look like everyone else. Lady Hunney dresses simply, military style, no frills and bows.’
‘There is the matter of length, Caroline.’ Her mother’s voice was heavy with meaning.
‘Ah.’ Caroline understood immediately. The older the lady, the nearer her skirts remained to the ground. Even her mother had moved her hemline up a few inches. Lady Hunney had raised her skirts to reveal her booted ankles, if not yet her lower calf. Grandmother had so far not budged them an inch.
‘Today she realised her mistake. By choosing to remain in full-length skirts, which is a declaration of age, she has removed herself from competition with Lady Hunney for the position of Queen of the Village. She has just commanded the presence of the village dressmaker – not even by name, though she must know it perfectly well. I told her to walk
over and make an appointment like everyone else.’
Caroline was both fascinated and impatient with such trivialities. Fascination won. Mrs Hazel, unassuming as she was, went to no one unless they were unable to leave the house. Lady Hunney patronised a London dressmaker, but Grandmother was in no position to follow suit. Nor was she housebound, fortunately for the Rectory. She sighed, wistfully eyeing glasses of punch all round her. Even Captain Rosier seemed to be enjoying one, deep in conversation with Daniel. Talking about code-breaking and army matters, no doubt, not stuck with skirt lengths and battling matrons. ‘I don’t see what you’re upset about then.’
‘You will. Your grandmother has just heard about the flower festival, and her failure over Mrs Hazel has sharpened her claws in that direction.’
Caroline understood her mother’s concern immediately, and in Ashden terms it was no laughing matter. The home front too had its battles. Lady Hunney had always presented the prizes and helped to judge the festival, which this year was to take place on 29th July. A bid to change that far over-ranked Grandmother’s attempts to break into the tight-knit committees in charge of war relief.
She had a brainwave. ‘I’ll tell Grandmother there won’t be one this year, because it’s unpatriotic to grow flowers, not vegetables. I’m sure Father would agree.’
Elizabeth looked at her sadly. ‘I’m very much afraid your Grandmother suggested to your father half an hour ago that the flower show be expanded to cover vegetables and fruit. On the pretext of its being a different show, she intends to be queen of the proceedings. You see?’
Caroline did. ‘Then Father must change his mind.’
‘It’s too late, Caroline. Your grandmother immediately sent Parker down to the village to inform Mr Bertram
and
told Beatrice Ryde.’ The sacristan, a keen gardener, was in practical charge of the flower show, and Beatrice was the formidable chief organiser.
‘Then let Lady Hunney judge the flowers and Grandmother the fruit and veg.’
‘That’s like asking the Kaiser to share his spoils fifty-fifty with the doddery old Habsburg Emperor Franz Joseph … whatever’s that?’
Caroline broke off, whirling round as a loud scream attracted everyone’s attention. This was not merely a plate of sandwiches dropped on the kitchen floor, but some emergency. Mrs Dibble was running across the lawn, waving her arms, screaming out for the Rector. Fire? Accident? Was Agnes’s little girl hurt? Myrtle?
Caroline and her mother rushed towards her, colliding with her father as they reached the distraught woman. It was he she turned to, clutching his lapels in terror: ‘Rector, Rector, do something! They’ve come for Fred.’
‘Who?’
‘The military police. They’ve come to take him away to die in them trenches.’
‘O God, our help in ages past—’
Margaret Dibble’s less than fine alto voice came to a halt. For the first time He had failed her badly, and all the Sussex pudding in the Weald could not compensate. The Rectory had to go on eating, and the dust wouldn’t stop settling just because she and Percy had troubles, but somehow these thoughts failed to rally her. You knew where you were in the old days. None of this ‘macon’ rubbish. Bacon was bacon then, not made from mutton. Furthermore, if this war hadn’t come, her Lizzie wouldn’t be in the family way thanks to a man she wasn’t married to and who had smartly marched off to the wars. She would still be in her little Hartfield cottage, safely married to that nice Rudolf, and Mrs Stein instead of Lizzie Dibble as she now called herself for her own protection. Of course, she’d still be married to a German and now that everyone knew just what Germans
were like, Margaret couldn’t wish that fate on her Lizzie either. Life was a half-baked cake to which you had to add your own ingredients, even though you couldn’t bank on its turning out right.
She looked up belligerently as her kitchen door opened, but it wasn’t Lady Blooming Buckford. It was the Rector. It couldn’t be good news, or he would have called her into his study, and not trespassed on her domain – not that those old rules applied any more either. Every Tom, Dick and Harry seemed to think they were entitled to stroll into her kitchen any time they pleased. The Rector was different, though.
‘Fred?’ she asked sharply. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since that new offensive on the Somme began two weeks ago. They said at first it was a success, but they weren’t making such a song and dance about it now, and someone had to go out to fill in the gaps caused by casualties.
‘Can you spare a moment or two, Mrs Dibble?’ Rector pulled one of the kitchen chairs out for her. So it was going to be bad. Margaret decided she would sit down. ‘Would you like your husband to join us?’
‘You tell me first, Rector. I can’t abide waiting, and Percy takes things hard, thank you all the same.’
‘I’ve heard from the military authorities, and they tell me that the medical examiner has reinspected Fred in accordance with the appeal procedure, but have again passed him as fit for service.’
Of course they had. Them army doctors would see no reason Fred shouldn’t be another blinking Field
Marshal Haig, provided he could see further than his nose and hadn’t got the plague. It was them couldn’t see proper. Dry-eyed, that’s what you had to be these days. ‘He’s not fit to go outside these four walls,’ Margaret replied flatly.
‘I know that, you know that, but the authorities are only interested in physical fitness, and Fred is a strong young man.’
‘Who’s too chuckleheaded to pick up a gun at the right end, let alone fire it. He’ll think a bayonet is for picking up dead leaves.’
‘I shall keep on trying, Mrs Dibble. He’s still in this country under training, as you know, so there is still hope.’
‘Training!’ she repeated bitterly. How long would that last? It was no use Rector looking at her in that compassionate way. All the sympathy in the world hadn’t brought Fred safely home, nor all the prayers either.
‘I thought you would like to know that Dr Marden has been to see Fred.’
Her head jerked up. ‘How was he?’ It was the middle of July, over a month since he’d been taken and she had still not received a word. Hardly surprising, since he couldn’t write.
‘A little bewildered, but physically he seems to be coping well enough.’
‘It’s not like you to nuddle about with the truth, Rector.’
‘Very well,’ the Rector replied evenly. ‘Dr Marden insisted on seeing the training camp commanding officer. Fred is, as you feared, being teased by his fellow soldiers, but we know Fred never minded that too much. He takes it in good part.’
‘Put that way, it’s what I’ll tell Percy.’ Briskness was best. ‘I understand what you’re trying to tell me, Rector, or not tell me. What about His Majesty?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘His Majesty wouldn’t want poor Fred to go through all this.’
‘Try everything, Mrs Dibble. It can do no harm. If I can help—’
‘But it’ll do no good either.’ She rose to her feet. ‘And if you’ll excuse me, Rector, thanks for all you’re doing, but I’ll get on with luncheon or you’ll all go hungry. And don’t you get bothering Mrs Lilley to pop in to see I’m all right. She’s enough worries of her own.’
From the Rector’s face she knew that’s just what he had been thinking, but to her relief he left her alone. She wanted a good cry, before she pulled herself together and went to tell Percy. Three kids, one of them out somewhere on the front digging trenches, one of them having a bastard, and the other feeble-minded and dragged probably to his death from the shelter of his home. Once Ashden could shelter its weakling chicks; now no one and nowhere could, even though we were supposed to be fighting for a better world.
The Lord sent rain as well as sun, but why did He have to send all the storms together? If the Kaiser invaded, at least Fred would come home, and Joe would be safe with Muriel and his little ones, and life—
Margaret Dibble, what are you saying? She was horrified at herself. This was treason, and her Joe had told her all about what happened to traitors. His battalion had been on guard duty at the Tower of London when that
evil German spy Hans Lody was executed at the end of 1914, so he could speak with authority on the subject. She, Margaret Dibble, might be rowed up to Traitors’ Gate just like Sir Walter Raleigh, poor gentleman.
She began to cut the neglected boiled pudding into slices to pop under the roast mutton. This was the Lord’s work, and the Lord couldn’t have a very high opinion of Mrs Margaret Dibble at the moment. She hastened to make amends, guiltily aware that because of her dallying there would be no vanilla custard with the tart today.
‘Time, like an ever-rolling stream …’ Her voice rose up in defiance of everything and everyone who dared attack the citadel which Margaret Dibble had built for her family within the sheltering walls of the Rectory.
Caroline, running up the garden path, heard it and was reassured. If Mrs Dibble was still singing hymns, then even the calamity she had to impart to Mother might be surmounted. She found her mother in the glory-hole, the outbuilding she had taken over in order to work as far away as possible from Grandmother. Here, with a small paraffin stove for warmth in the winter, Mother presided over her office, helping Caroline with the farm rotas, and packing endless parcels of books, old clothes, cooking utensils and blankets for the village war relief committees. The Rectory was a collection point. Seeing the box in the entrance hall, parishioners at the daily Rector’s Hour were reminded that there were people far worse off in the world than they were, and a surprising amount of material, despite the continuous call for it in the last two years, was donated.
‘Mother, have you heard what Grandmother has done?’
Elizabeth promptly dropped the burning sealing wax as Caroline burst in, and they scrabbled on the floor to retrieve it, banging their heads together in the process.
‘What now?’ her mother asked wearily, as she extinguished the flame. ‘I thought she was being too quiet.’
Grandmother had lost the battle for the flower festival. Lady Hunney had graciously intimated to her that the idea of extending the festival to vegetables and fruit was a most patriotic one, and that she had spoken (she could strike like a snake when she wished) to the organisers. Two new silver cups, engraved with the Ashden Manor crest, were to be presented to the winners of the vegetables and fruit by herself and the judge was to be a friend of her husband’s from the Board of Agriculture.
Grandmother had been sensible enough to realise she was beaten, and since then she had been very quiet indeed. A sign of trouble, Caroline thought ruefully, if only they had taken note of it earlier. As it was, the festival was only just over two weeks away at the end of July, and nothing could be done. At least, she amended crossly, not by anyone other than Grandmother.
‘It’s too awful. She’s—’
‘Arranged for Lady Hunney to break her leg?’ Elizabeth enquired.
‘If only it were so simple,’ Caroline grimaced. ‘She’s stepped in to organise the Sunday School treat. Goodness knows how she’s wangled it, but she’s paying for everyone to go to the seaside in motor charabancs for the day with luncheon and tea paid for too.’
‘What’s wrong about that?’
‘It’s for the same day as the flower festival, Saturday 29th.’
‘What?’ her mother screeched. ‘You must be mistaken, Caroline. Even she wouldn’t—’
‘I wish I was, but Mr Bertram told me. He should know, he’s the organiser of the festival, and Mrs Bertram is the head of the Sunday School. What’s worse,’ Caroline added gloomily, ‘he said Rector had agreed.’
‘Laurence has agreed?’ Elizabeth repeated faintly. ‘Has he gone mad?’
‘I don’t know, but if not there’ll be civil war in Ashden.’ It was all so petty in the midst of a real war raging over a large part of the world. Surely everyone’s attention should be focused on what was happening at the Somme, not on a battle over flowers.
Her mother must have read her thoughts, for she said: ‘I suppose people don’t change in times of trouble.’
‘But they could win a few medals for
trying
. After all, even the Mutter and Thorn volcano has quietened down.’ The generations-old village feud had not erupted for months.
‘I suspect dear Lady B convinces herself this is her contribution to the war effort,’ Elizabeth fumed. ‘So many people will go on the treat, with all the children, their parents and the teachers, it will be tantamount to a boycott of the flower festival. Not that I personally mind. How dare Lady Hunney ignore our work for agriculture here by going above our heads? Nevertheless, I suppose peace in Ashden comes first, and so I propose we seek an audience with the
War Minister right away,’ his wife suggested grimly.
They found Laurence in his study, thankfully settling down for an hour’s paperwork before setting off on his morning calls, none too pleased at being interrupted. For once, Caroline had no compunction about doing so, even though Father’s annoyance merely changed to surprise as she explained why they were there.
‘Certainly I agreed to my mother’s plan. Why not? The Sunday School treat was to be scaled down to a picnic in the forest this year, but when my mother offered to pay, I saw no reason to object, and still don’t.’
‘You
agreed
?’ Elizabeth was even more horrified. ‘Knowing she was planning it for the same day as the flower festival? Apart from anything else, you have to attend both functions, Laurence.’
‘The same day?’
With guilty pleasure, Caroline watched the conflicting emotions battling in her father’s face, as he realised he had been outmanoeuvred by his mother, and tried to find the way out. He didn’t succeed.
‘I didn’t know that was the day she planned,’ he confessed at last. ‘I assumed it was the same day as we had agreed for the picnic, in August.’
‘Never assume anything with your mother, Laurence,’ Elizabeth said crossly.
‘I’m afraid she’s outwitted you this time, Father.’
It was the best thing Caroline could have said, for Laurence had much of his mother’s stubbornness in him, which was why until last year, when her house was bombed, they had seen little of Grandmother save for one annual
visit to Dover. It was a visit made by Father, herself and her sisters and brother only, since Grandmother had refused to receive her mother in her house, or even to meet her, until forced to do so last year. The relationship remained strained, to put it politely.
‘Leave it with me. Say nothing to
anyone
, and I will deal with it,’ Laurence told them firmly.
‘You’ll cancel the Sunday School outing?’
‘No. I think our Lord is prepared to assist us on this occasion.’ He glanced out at the warm sunshine outside, donned his jacket, and strode out in masterly fashion into combat.
‘What’s he going to do, do you think?’ Caroline asked her mother, fascinated.
‘Puncture the charabanc tyres, I hope. How did your grandmother organise motorised transport and petrol for the treat in these days – or has she rustled up horses?’
‘You make her sound like Buffalo Bill.’
‘Annie Oakley. Dead-shot bullseye every time.’
Her mother returned to the glory-hole, and Caroline, unwillingly, was able to return to her own next problem. She’d almost rather have Grandmother to deal with. However, onward it was for this Christian soldier. She donned her business boater and set out for The Towers, resisting the temptation to go the long way round past the hop gardens to put off the ordeal as long as possible.
There had still been no progress on the question of the hop garden’s future. Lizzie had little more than a month to go before her baby was born, but even if she were able to organise the harvest, it would be impossible
without William Swinford-Browne’s agreement. So far he had turned a blind eye to what they were doing, through lack of interest. She had managed to persuade him that a minimum of labour should be employed to hoe, dress and train the plants, but the hop-picking was a different matter. There would be pickers to pay, before such money could be reimbursed from the sale of the hops, now he no longer had a brewery of his own.
Caroline hated The Towers. She hated the dark, gloomy pretentiousness of the building, and she hated William Swinford-Browne, though his wife Edith was more bearable. Unfortunately Isabel was married to their son Robert, now away training for the Royal Flying Corps, and lived only a few hundred yards away at Hop House. Polite relations therefore had to be maintained.
Isabel spent much of her time at the Rectory, although Caroline suspected this was partly to avoid giving Lizzie a hand in the hop gardens. She made no secret of the fact that she didn’t like the girl, considering she was responsible for her own predicament, and anyway, she had informed Caroline that she, Isabel, was not suited for field work. It did not surprise her. Isabel of all of them had not adapted to the war, or to the need to contribute to it. She seemed to think being married absolved her from everything, even developing her own life. Although she paid lip service to the war effort by helping both her mother-in-law and Lady Hunney with their committee work, Caroline couldn’t help noticing that Isabel’s duties did not seem to weigh heavily on her.