Songs of Spring (15 page)

She made one last stab at normality. ‘You’ll find the remains of the beef in the larder, Myrtle. Make a nice shepherd’s pie, and put the cold veg in it too, so it goes further. And not too much sugar in the stewed apple. Use a piece of bread instead. Oh, and mind what I told you about the gravy. None of your powders.’

‘Yes, Mrs D. Oh, Mrs D!’ Myrtle’s voice rose in alarm, as she saw that Margaret was crying. It was like Fred’s death all over again. It hadn’t really seemed real that Mrs Isabel was dead, and Mr George in hospital. Nanny Oates
was dead too, but she was old, and Mrs Isabel was at least young enough to have a baby. Now the baby was lost as well as Mrs Isabel. Myrtle began to sniff.

‘Don’t you go crying into the gravy, Myrtle.’ With that, Margaret hurried out of the kitchen before she collapsed.

Caroline had left Yves with Father while she went to release Agnes and sit with her mother. She looked so peaceful asleep, away from the day’s nightmare, although every so often lines of pain would spread across her face. Caroline knew everything about that face, every laughter line and every crease of anxiety, but this was a pain she could not lift from her, because she shared it.

‘She’s been asleep two hours,’ Agnes had said, ‘but I don’t think she’ll be asleep much longer. She’s beginning to get restless.’

After her mother had woken up and if she could be left, Caroline decided she would go to Ashden Manor to see George with Father and Yves. Felicia came back at lunchtime for half an hour, and told her that George was mainly suffering from concussion and shock, as well as the cuts and bruises. Last night he had broken down when he had learnt of Isabel’s death. There had been six deaths in all; the others were Samuel Thorn, Father’s verger, Nat Mutter’s son, a soldier roistering about on the green after the Norrington Arms closed and Jenny Hargreaves, daughter to Mrs Hazel the dressmaker, who lived further along on Bankside. Half an hour earlier there would have been far more deaths as people spilt out from the public house on to the green.

‘Where—?’ The words had stuck in Caroline’s throat, but Felicia understood.

‘The bodies are in the hospital mortuary.’

‘Can I—?’

‘No, darling. It’s better not to.’

‘She should be here, in her home.’

Felicia took her hands. ‘Caroline, you know she is.’

‘
Know?
Felicia, how can you still say that? Even after what I went through when I was involved in those bomb incidents, I realise that’s nothing to the horrors you’ve seen. How can you be sure there’s a loving God? I thought I’d found my faith again, but this – this has put an end to it.’

Felicia thought for a moment. ‘I wasn’t sure when I was first at the front. But as time went by, I realised the strength Tilly and I found to keep going wasn’t just our own.’

‘I wish I could realise that,’ Caroline said bitterly.

‘You will. It’s not just the major disasters that restore it. It’s the small trials. For instance—’ Felicia hesitated, ‘There’s something you can do for me. Edith and William Swinford-Browne are coming over at four this afternoon and as Mother won’t be able to face them, one of us has to. There are still eleven people injured in the hospital, so I must go back.’

Felicia watched her expression as Caroline’s heart plummeted. ‘Isabel was their daughter-in-law, and the baby would have been their grandchild. Please, Caroline.’

Of course Felicia was right. How could they close the doors of the Rectory to anyone at a time like this? The Swinford-Brownes were part of Isabel’s family, and must be received as such. With deep gratitude, Caroline
remembered Yves was here and could help her.

In the event, she returned with Felicia to Ashden Hospital, leaving Yves and her father to receive Phoebe when she arrived. Their path was doubly a sad one, for many victims of war had walked along it before Isabel and George. At their head was dear Reggie, whom she had loved so much. That love had never been tested as had her love for Yves, and he remained enshrined in her memory as distinct from the present as were her childhood and girlhood.

George was in a room with two convalescent army lieutenants from France, but he was not joining in their conversation. His eyes brightened when he saw Caroline.

‘My big sister says I can come home tomorrow,’ he managed to laugh.

‘This even bigger sister thinks that’s good news.’ Did she? Could the household cope with a semi-invalid. She dismissed such stupidity. George would recover quicker at home, surrounded by family, and the fact that he was able to maintain a front of cheerfulness would be another element in his getting quickly on his feet again. He didn’t maintain it for long.

‘It doesn’t seem fair,’ he said vehemently. ‘How
could
it happen here in Ashden? On the front we expect it, crashes, dogfights, deaths, accidents, blood and funerals, but here it’s different. It shouldn’t have happened.’

‘I suppose we imagined Ashden would remain untouched, while we were away,’ Caroline replied sadly. ‘We need something to come home to, something safe to remember from the old days.’

‘Perhaps. I tell you, Caroline, no more skylarking and cartoons for me. We chaps out there thought we were fighting to keep England unaltered. And all we’ve done is wreck it. I can’t imagine Ashden without Bankside, without Nanny Oates’ cottage, and without Isabel. Why wasn’t it me? I’ve been close enough to death scores of times, and yet
she
was killed.’ He turned away his head so that she would not see him crying.

Caroline put out her hand to stroke his cheek. ‘You
have
helped, and so have your cartoons. You mustn’t give them up. They mean a lot to people.’

He took no notice. ‘She must have taken the full force of the bomb. I can’t bear it, Caroline.’

Caroline shuddered. In the two bomb explosions she had seen at close hand, one dropped by a Zeppelin near the Gaiety and one in a Gotha raid on Folkestone last year, she had seen mangled bodies, torn limbs and sightless eyes in plenty, and the thought of Isabel, her baby and poor Nanny Oates like that brought vomit into her throat. Yes, she knew what it was like, and so did George and Felicia for they had both seen it all. Even Phoebe had been close to war. Now Father and Mother had seen it too, and the bonds of the family must surely strengthen, not break apart.

By the time Caroline arrived back at the Rectory, Phoebe and Billy had arrived and so had the Swinford-Brownes. Yves appeared to be holding his own with William and Edith, but Phoebe leapt up to embrace her. ‘I can’t believe it, Caroline,’ she cried. ‘Can I see George? Where’s Felicia? And how’s Mother? She hasn’t appeared yet. Oh, Caroline, hold me tight. I never want to lose the Rectory again.’

Caroline tried to calm her down, but Phoebe would not be silenced. ‘There was an air raid in France too yesterday. Six WAACs were killed. It could have been me, but I understand that, because it’s in the war zone. It’s Isabel I don’t understand. That poor baby.’ She burst out crying.

‘Come upstairs, darling, and we’ll talk. You can rest until Mother’s awake.’

‘
Rest?
How do you think I can rest?’ Phoebe moaned.

‘Whether you can or not, you’ve a baby to think of.’

Phoebe was showing no signs yet of approaching motherhood, but that made no difference. She must take life more peacefully and this tragedy was not going to help at all.

Caroline returned to William and Edith, and a thankful Yves. The Swinford-Brownes seemed to have aged considerably, whether through time or shock. Edith looked shrunken and grey against her dark gown, and William robbed of his usual cocksure arrogant manner looked almost human. Impulsively, Caroline kissed them both, and Edith promptly burst into tears.

‘How’s your poor mother?’

‘Asleep.’ (I hope, thought Caroline. She would not be able to bear Edith’s solicitations, however well meant.)

‘The funeral arrangements—’ William began, almost diffidently for him. ‘Phoebe tells us your father is in a bad way, poor fellow. Edith and I would like to hold it in East Grinstead, if it would help.’

Caroline was saved from the terrible predicament by her father’s entry into the room. ‘There is no need. I’m most grateful, William, but how,’ he stopped, then managed to
continue, ‘how could my daughter go to Our Lord without my blessing her on her way?’

‘Have you the strength, Father?’ Caroline asked quietly. ‘No one would blame you for not holding it here. And there are five other funerals, as well.’

‘With the love and support of my family, and that includes you Edith and William, Billy and Yves, I know I can.’

Margaret came into the kitchen after two hours’ blessed sleep to find Agnes looking harassed.

‘What am I going to do, Margaret?’ she asked. ‘Mrs Lilley still isn’t here, so I have to make my own mind up. The Rector doesn’t reckon Mrs Phoebe and Mr Billy are married. Should I get two rooms ready, or one? Captain Yves has gone back to London, otherwise I’d have the same problem there. Worse, since they’re not even half married.’

Yesterday Margaret would have been in no doubt what to do. Today everything had changed. ‘One room, Agnes. That’s what the Rector would want, and I’m sure it’s certainly what Mrs Phoebe will want, poor girl. There’s nothing worse than crying alone.’

Her mother had woken briefly, and taken some tea, but she was still so dazed and distressed that Caroline gave her another pill, as Dr Parry had directed. Reality could wait a little longer.

It waited until the next day, by which time her mother was up, though very silent, and by now Felicia was able to take Caroline’s place, and Luke had arrived too. Caroline took on the task of going round the village to visit the
bereaved, after her father’s calls on them, which he had insisted on making. There was an open door now for the Rector, although many had closed it since the war began, preferring to nurse grief away from what they saw as an impotent Church. Now the Rector was one of them again, since he too had lost a loved one.

‘Poor lamb,’ Mrs Farthing observed. ‘And your ma too, bless her.’

Poor lamb? Blessing the Rector’s wife? Before the war the villagers would have as soon called Lady Hunney a poor lamb as the Rector, so much respect was he held in. He still was, but the respect had changed direction. It was respect for his humanity, not his role at the end of God’s telephone line.

Luke explained to them that evening what had happened, after taking Caroline’s advice as to whether her parents were up to it. It had been a full-scale raid on Dover and London, with nearly thirty Gothas getting through to strike at London. They came in from Kent and Essex, but on reaching the London defences some of them had been turned away. As he had thought, one of them seriously lost direction, coming as far west as Tunbridge Wells. The Crowborough defences fired at it, which had driven it further west and in the process its hung-up bomb had fallen. The raid had caused much loss of life in London and Dover too, with nearly fifty people killed.

They listened in silence. Luke’s story assumed reality only when Caroline remembered the funerals on Friday.

Normal life was in abeyance until then, but she made an
effort to bear work in mind. ‘Do you need me at the office before next week?’ she asked Luke.

‘Strictly speaking yes, but Yves and I have decided we can manage. Ellen is coming in to help out.’

‘Good.’ The idea of madcap Ellen coming in to sort through reports would have appalled Caroline under normal circumstances. Now it was irrelevant.

Isabel was buried on a calm spring day in a joint service for all six of the dead, which began with an address by Father on Bankside with the congregation – the whole of Ashden – packed around him.

The debris had been taken away now, and only the missing cottages and the barren earth where the grass had been burnt from it spoke of Sunday’s tragedy. They sang one favourite hymn for each victim, and then moved on to St Nicholas. In this church Isabel had been baptised, confirmed and married. Its solid grey walls had seen tragedy and triumph over the ages, given comfort and doubled rejoicing, and with Yves at her side, Caroline found the service bearable, simple, loving and dignified. Committing Isabel to the earth was far harder in the stark bleakness of the farewell. How could they turn away and leave her there in the churchyard? Help came from a surprising quarter. After the last committal, that of Mrs Hazel’s daughter, Len Thorn stepped forward in his corporal’s army uniform.

‘Shall it be tonight, Rector?’

Father just stared at him, not understanding. ‘Shall what be tonight?’

‘The tree.’ Len reddened, for when Fred Dibble had
died, he had been the ringleader in insisting his name was erased from the long list of those who had sacrificed their lives in this war carved on the bark of the now war-torn oak tree. ‘I reckon your daughter, Rector, and the others, they all died for the war. We Tommies are on the Western Front, and this is the Home Front. There’s no difference now between the two of them, so those six names should be on the list with the others.’

Father was finding difficulty in speaking, he was so moved, so Len did it for him.

‘I’ll do the carving, Rector.’

‘And I’ll help you, Len.’ Nat Mutter stepped forward.

With a sense of shock Margaret realised this was early June and a Saturday. Normally, even last year, this was the day she would have been busy preparing for the tennis party. Before the war this would have meant all five Lilley children and their friends gathering for a one-set knockout competition, tea, and in the evening a dance on what was grandly called the terrace, though it was so mossy now, it was more like another lawn. As the war wore on, it had been progressively harder to find enough players, but somehow they’d managed. Now there was one less. Last year it had been Mrs Isabel who had organised it all. This year – she could hardly bear thinking about it, in case it started her off crying again. There wasn’t even a court to play on now, anyway.

‘This will be the end of the old tennis party, Daisy,’ Percy had prophetically said to her as she hurriedly washed the dishes after tea last year. ‘You mark my words.’ Now the
court had been ploughed up for vegetables, at Mrs Lilley’s reluctant command and much against his will.

‘After the war,’ Margaret had said stoutly, ‘you can lay it again.’

‘Who for?’ he’d asked.

Percy was right, of course. Even if the boys came marching home from war, who would bring the girls back? Miss Caroline busy with her own life, Master George already carving a name for himself as a cartoonist, Miss Phoebe spreading her wings in France, Miss Felicia a heroine. None of them would see out their days in the Rectory. ‘There’ll be only Mrs Isabel,’ she’d answered Percy.

‘And that won’t be for long,’ Percy had replied, meaning that she would be making her own home again somewhere with Mr Robert, and most probably it wouldn’t be in Ashden. His words had come true all right, and for the worst of reasons.

Margaret’s view through the kitchen window of the small patch of garden outside became misty.
Her
garden, she called it, for she and Percy grew what they liked in it. But it wasn’t really theirs; it belonged to the Rectory. That hadn’t appeared to matter over the years, but what had once been invulnerable, now seemed fragile. Life anywhere could change into death at the snap of Fate’s finger. Death took whom it pleased and laughed at man’s puny efforts to build himself a refuge. It had taken Fred, now it had taken Mrs Isabel, Nanny Oates and others. If the Rector had been taken too, they’d all have had to leave the Rectory and what would poor Mrs Lilley do
then? What would Percy and herself do? The workhouse most like, if there were any left after the war. Most of them were makeshift hospitals now. The only ray of light was good old Lloyd George in charge. He would put things right after the war.

After seemed a long way away at the moment. In the midst of Ashden was a huge hole, not only physically, but in its heart. Everyone felt the same, not just the bereaved. Even though most of the debris had been taken away now, what was left seemed worse. A jagged scar gaped where people had walked and laughed and run ever since Ashden had come into being and that was long before the Frenchies had come marching in in 1066. That was quite enough, the Kaiser wasn’t going to follow suit. What had happened hadn’t lessened the village’s determination about that. Although everyone went about their business just the same, there was no heart left in them. And that wasn’t just the bomb, for other villages were the same. No one had the same interest in village concerns. The old high days and holidays had mostly gone, or there was no one to run events. Instead, everyone concentrated with a sick desperation on the need to stick it out and get this war won. Instead of that day growing nearer, the situation was getting worse. The Germans picked on the French lines for once, when they began their tricks again at the end of May. Since we were all in the same boat now, that was almost as bad as having a go at our Tommies, and anyway, the papers said that Tommies had been fighting with the French.

True, now the Americans had condescended to take a
small part it was a help, but from what she could gather most of them were still training at home. The newspaper said that two days ago the Germans were only forty miles from Paris, and the French government and lots of Parisians were getting ready to run like rabbits. Americans were as good as a dose of Epsom salts, Percy had said approvingly yesterday. Salts went straight through you, Margaret had thought gloomily, and so the Germans would do to those newcomers to battle. Apparently she was wrong for so far the Americans were holding the line at Château-Thierry, and as yet the Germans hadn’t broken through for their visit to the Eiffel Tower.

Still, they’d seen all this before. Old Asquith had been right to ‘wait and see’. It was too soon to wave flags and although no one really believed that the Germans would
win
, the fact remained that food got scarcer and dearer, queues got longer, bills got higher, and the men still marched off. There was hardly an able-bodied man around, now the age was up to fifty. Thank goodness Lizzie’s Frank had been invalided out, and no wonder, he was as weak as a kitten.

Babies got born just the same, though. With all the shock of the bomb, Margaret had thought Agnes might have come early, but she hadn’t. The baby was still expected later this month, and with Agnes near her time, all the work fell on Margaret and Myrtle. Each day brought new battles on the food front. How to substitute, how to cope. Coupons for meat, bacon, sugar and now fat was the latest one. Pretty soon you’d have to ask the government before you could visit your own privy.

Inside, Caroline felt nothing but a merciful numbness, which allowed her to work, talk, and even laugh. It was merciful because it meant that tearing grief could not fight its way through. She supposed it must be buried deep inside her, but here in London at any rate that’s where it remained. She knew Yves and Luke were worried about her, but this surprised her a little, for from their point of view she was coping wonderfully. She couldn’t cry in the office, and Ellen, busy with her own affairs and love life, couldn’t spend all her time consoling Caroline, nor could Yves be burdened with her grief. She would continue to work through the mundane jobs of everyday life, and ignore what might be going on within her. It was easier to do this in London than at the Rectory where Felicia had remained for the time being to look after Mother. Towards the end of June the situation changed, however.

‘Caroline, do you want to visit home on your next day off?’ Luke asked casually. ‘We could give you the weekend and an extra day.’

Caroline stiffened, aware that she felt safer here than faced with the painful associations of Ashden, but also that Felicia or no Felicia, her parents needed her.

‘Can you come with me, Yves?’

‘No, my love, for a few hours perhaps, but there is too much going on. As you know.’

She did. Codebreaking had achieved wonderful results earlier this month when a French codebreaker read the German plans to launch a new offensive on the Montdidier–Compiegne line, and as a result, despite many casualties, the French had resisted the German
attempt to push forward. It made their job all the more important at the moment, since Ludendorff would surely be planning further assaults in the near future. The longer he left it, the more likelihood there was of increased American presence in the line. Or so he might believe. In fact, there was little chance of that beyond Pershing’s earlier grudging promise for limited troops under French control. New troops were shortly scheduled to arrive in France, but he was hanging on to them for his grand army planned for action in 1919. By which time, if the Germans kept on going at their present rate, there’d no longer be a war to fight.

There was something else keeping Yves occupied too. King Albert and Queen Elisabeth would be paying a visit to England shortly, partly to celebrate King George V and Queen Mary’s silver wedding anniversary, and partly to rally the Belgian cause in Britain.

‘Felicia is still planning to come to London to work,’ Luke added casually, which explained precisely the reason for their ‘generosity’.

‘She didn’t tell me.’

‘You were out,’ Luke replied patiently. ‘She’s changed her mind about the Red Cross. She met Dr Louisa Garrett Anderson in France, and has accepted her suggestion that she works at the Endell Street Hospital – and maybe go to their French hospital later.’

‘She’s not well enough.’

‘She believes she is. If you can persuade her to stay here, you’ll have my gratitude. If she goes to France, she’ll be tempted to go back to the front line.’

‘Mother and Father need her at Ashden.’

‘Caroline.’ Luke looked at her reproachfully. ‘I’ve never known you so ungiving.’

‘It’s always
me
doing the giving, that’s why,’ Caroline muttered savagely, and Luke said no more.

From Felicia’s point of view it made sense. Dr Garrett Anderson, the daughter of the famous Elizabeth, had founded the Women’s Hospital Corps in 1914, and once the French hospital was established she and Dr Flora Murray founded the hospital in London. All the staff were women, from the lowest to the highest, and Dr Murray was the chief surgeon. For Felicia to join them made great sense, but it left Caroline with a problem.

‘Don’t you want to visit the Rectory this weekend?’ Yves asked her later in the privacy of their bedroom.

‘Of course I do.’ She busied herself by wrenching off her boots.

‘Now tell me the truth,’ Yves said, and when she did not reply, added, ‘It is quite normal to avoid grief.’

‘I’m not avoiding it.’ She was filled with indignation.

‘Then it is worse than I feared. To avoid pain is natural, but not to want to return to your home, to your parents and the village of which you are part, that I do not understand. Do you only want the good things Ashden can offer, Caroline? Do you only wish to wander down its lanes, to take sanctuary in familiar surroundings and give nothing back to those who have provided it?’

She burst into tears. ‘How can you say such terrible things, Yves? Of course I want to help.’ A tiny part of
her began to wonder if he was right, however. Had she unconsciously been avoiding Ashden?

He muffled her in his arms. ‘Then go,
cara
, and take me with you in your heart.’

Now Miss Felicia was leaving as well. It was inevitable, Margaret supposed, since she was only doing what she’d been planning before it had all happened. That time seemed so long ago, though, that Margaret’s mind had dismissed it, since the Rectory world had changed since then. Daily life didn’t change, though, it simply plodded along the same old tracks.

She’d done her best to help the Rector, though it hadn’t been easy. Like Ahab – well, not their old sheepdog, but the old king he was named for, who turned his face to the wall – poor Rector shut himself up in his study all day long, sometimes not even coming out for meals. Mind you, with rations the way they were, they weren’t worth coming out for, but you had to keep your strength up somehow, even if it was only wartime soup.

He was so quiet and subdued yesterday that she had taken the liberty of speaking straight out to him. She knocked on the study door and took no notice of his patient, unresponsive look when she entered.

‘Beg your pardon, sir, for intruding, but I brought you
Raymond
to read. Now I know that you don’t go along with all it says, but that doesn’t stop you reading it, does it?’

He had smiled at least, even took
Raymond
from her.

‘A cloistered virtue,’ he murmured.

‘Beg your pardon, sir?’

‘From Milton – how can one conquer evil by shutting oneself away?’

‘Evil?’ She flushed angrily.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Dibble, I didn’t mean your book. I greatly appreciate your thoughtfulness for me, and I will certainly read it.’

Emboldened by this, Margaret had added: ‘That Sherlock Holmes man has approved it, so I read.’

‘Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? Yes, I believe I read a review of his new book, in which he endorses
Raymond
. However—’ The Rector had broken off whatever he intended to say, but as Margaret left the room she saw he was already glancing through
Raymond
. She had been well satisfied, for that was all she asked. She’d be going to Mrs Orvino again soon. It had crossed her mind that if Fred had been so sure they’d have a lovely party at Whitsun, why couldn’t he have given some warning about the bomb? She worried about this for some time, and then decided Fred wouldn’t have been able to prevent what was going to happen, and hadn’t wanted to distress her by hinting at it. Yes, that was it.

With Rector locked away, and Miss Felicia going, they’d be rattling around in the Rectory like dried peas again. Only Mr George was left, and as soon as he was well enough he’d be off back to France. He wasn’t his old self either. Mrs Isabel’s death had knocked the stuffing out of him quicker than von Richthofen’s circus – if there was one any more, for the Red Baron had been killed in the spring.

Poor Mrs Lilley was wandering round the house like a lost soul, saying nothing but, ‘Yes, Mrs Dibble, that would
be splendid, Mrs Dibble.’ What had been a partnership had turned into Margaret running the house, and Mrs Lilley obediently falling into line, and throwing herself – or trying to do so – into her agricultural work. It was natural enough and Margaret had no objection. Mrs Lilley had supported her when Fred died, and now it was time for her to do the same. Even Lady Buckford was keeping her head below the parapet these days. At least, this weekend Miss Caroline would be here for two whole days.

The first thing that Caroline registered was that where her mother’s fine dark hair had grown over the last month, it was now iron grey. Even her mother’s hug seemed different. Always before it had been to
give
, now it seemed to Caroline that it was she who was giving strength, and what Yves had implied was right. Unconsciously she had been avoiding this change of role. The child in her, instantly frightened at this realisation, was quickly dismissed. Caroline knew she was needed here as never before, and more, that she
wanted
to be here.

She braced herself, gathering her strength. At the moment, with Yves at hand, her presence could help her parents, but for how much longer would that be so? After that, the roles might well be reversed once more. It had to be thought about, though not yet, for she could not fight on all flanks at once.