Songs of Spring (3 page)

‘Oscar’s safe.’

The days were passing slowly, and Caroline had to restrain herself from pestering Luke for news. If there had been any, he would have told her, good or bad. Her greatest fear – unlikely though it was – was still that Yves had gone himself into occupied Belgium, either on a mission (and there had been talk of dropping agents in) or to see his wife. If he did so and were caught, he would be shot as a spy. He never spoke of Annette-Marie. Caroline would hate it if he did, but she hated it when he did not. She told herself that to have his arms around her was enough, for war brought a time span of its own, but now that she lacked them, anxiety was biting deep.

In the week before Christmas Luke suddenly announced: ‘I’m taking you out tonight. Theatre and dinner. Yves’ instructions.’

‘You mean he’s not coming back for Christmas?’ Caroline was immediately suspicious. She knew that Yves was worried because the enemy had been putting a lot of effort into propaganda in the Flemish-speaking part of Belgium, which considered itself hard done by compared with the French-speaking areas. There were some deserters from the free Belgian army, and, worse, inside occupied Belgium much more co-operation with the Germans.
Had
Yves gone in himself to find out the truth of this?

‘I don’t mean anything of the sort, and I’m surprised at you. Where’s your stiff upper lip?’

‘Wobbling. The gum they sell nowadays isn’t up to much.’

All the same, she was pleased at the break, even if Luke’s choice of theatre wasn’t hers, and even if there was yet another of the thick fogs that were characterising this December. They went to the Comedy Theatre in Haymarket to see the Charlot revue, and when they came out into the darkness of wartime London, she found her spirits had lifted. Fun and froth were no bad thing when you wrestled all day with reality.

Soho was no longer the home of so many small Italian-run restaurants, for many of their owners and their sons had returned to join the Italian army when Italy declared war against Austria-Hungary.

However, Luke had winkled out one still run by the owner’s wife and daughters, which pleased Caroline greatly for with Yves she usually went to one of the coffee bars or restaurants around Piccadilly Circus, which had been virtually taken over by the French and Belgian military. On special occasions they went to Gambrinus, Belgian-owned, but less ‘discovered’ by the troops. The restaurant was packed with uniforms of course, which was hardly getting away from work, but so was every restaurant in London, and a small intimate restaurant was much nicer than the large hotels. Moreover the food would be better, even if they did have to gobble it because of the ten-thirty closing time imposed by wartime law. The Italians were more efficient at making do than big hotels who specialised, it
seemed to her, only in providing
less
, as a way of coping with food shortages.

Not everyone was in uniform. She glanced round the crowded room, seeing one civilian at least, though he was dining with a khaki-clad WAAC. Whom she recognised.

‘Phoebe!’ she yelled joyously before she could stop herself, to the great interest of the restaurant.

What on earth was her sister doing here when she was supposed to be driving motor transport on the Western Front? Mother hadn’t said anything about her getting leave.

Phoebe promptly turned bright red in the face. A suspicious sign, thought Caroline warily. She excused herself to Luke, and rushed over to hug her youngest and, in the past, most troublesome sister. Phoebe did not look pleased. ‘Caroline, this is Billy Jones. Billy, one of my
elder
sisters,’ she introduced him crossly.

Billy Jones?
Now
she recognised him, from his pictures at any rate. He was the popular Cockney music-hall star, and presumably Phoebe had met him in her work for the actress Lena Ashwell, who organised concerts and plays for the troops in France, and used WAAC transport. The first thing that struck Caroline was how small he was, as he stood up to shake hands. He was even shorter than Phoebe. The second thing was that she rather liked the look of him. He had twinkling brown eyes and a small moustache – and he looked comfortably at ease with Phoebe as if he’d known her some time.

‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Lilley. Why don’t you join us?’

She realised that Luke had already come to her side, and
of course, she belatedly remembered, he had met Phoebe at the Rectory last Christmas.

‘We’ve been to the Charlot revue,’ Caroline opened the conversation while her mind threw up one question mark after another.

‘Nice revue, bad news for music hall,’ Billy pulled a face. ‘People like more variety now. More legs and dancing and more foreign fancy acts. Home-grown cockney singers are out of fashion.’

‘Not you, Billy,’ Phoebe said.

He reached out and squeezed her hand.

Caroline could not resist asking the obvious question. ‘Do Mother and Father know you’re here?’

Phoebe and Billy exchanged a quick look. ‘No, it’s going to be a surprise,’ Phoebe said defiantly. ‘I’m going there for Christmas and Billy is coming too.’

‘Oh. Does Mrs Dibble know about it?’ Phoebe was all too apt to disregard the practicalities of life.

‘No, but she’ll cope,’ Phoebe assured her happily. ‘You won’t warn them, will you, Caroline?’

‘I won’t say a word,’ Caroline promised. Where, she wondered, though dared not ask, was Phoebe staying tonight? After all, she was still a child. Well – twenty, she rapidly calculated, but she’d never had much common sense and had leapt from one disaster to another in her emotional life. Please, oh, please, she made a silent prayer, let this not be another.

‘Mother says you two are living together,’ Phoebe said brightly.

‘That’s not quite as it sounds,’ Luke said easily, before
Caroline could reply in heated terms. ‘There are four of us. Yves Rosier, myself, and our batwoman Ellen, and, as your mother says, our assistant WAAC Sergeant Lilley.’

Phoebe giggled. ‘What fun.’ She shot Caroline a curious look.

Victoria Station was pandemonium with noise and thousands of uniformed bodies, as the leave trains came in and disgorged their passengers, mingling with the thousands attempting to reach their homes in time for Christmas. Not one of them was Yves. Caroline had heard nothing from him, and here she was alone to catch the Tunbridge Wells train, as Luke wasn’t coming either. Felicia had elected to stay at her post so that Tilly could come home. Much as Caroline loved her aunt, she minded this very much, although she knew she was being unreasonable. At least Isabel would be there – Isabel was always at home, and despite her mannerisms and annoying little ways, the thought of seeing her brought one warm glow at least. Phoebe would be there, but no George who was flying with 56 Squadron on the Western Front, no Felicia – and now no Yves. Santa Claus was being extremely remiss this year in his gifts for Caroline Lilley.

As the train chugged its slow way through East Grinstead towards Hartfield and then Ashden, she tried valiantly to cheer herself up. There would be no transport to meet her, for Poppy, their old horse, had long since died, and probably no familiar faces either. Mother and Mrs Dibble were too busy nowadays to stroll up to meet anyone for the pleasure of their company. Caroline hauled down her suitcase, and
tried to convince herself she was going to enjoy the walk. Despite the biting cold, it was a homecoming – and it was Christmas.

She handed her ticket to Mr Chappell, the stationmaster (no porters nowadays), and walked through into the ticket office, which seemed as crowded with uniforms as London. And then she saw an apparition: a Belgian khaki uniform, and
Yves was inside it
. She threw herself into his arms.

‘
Cara
, I could not get to London in time, so I came direct to Tunbridge Wells. Are you cross with me?’

‘How could I be cross? I’m just so happy to see you.’

Everything would be wonderful now. How could it fail to be? Even the icy rain had stopped when they got outside. She was coming alive again, like the ground after a long winter. Never mind that in the Rectory they would have separate rooms; Yves was safe and that was all that mattered.

She felt as though she were walking along Station Road in a dream. Sometimes she had nightmares of this long road, with the Rectory at the far end which she could never quite reach. She would now that Yves was at her side. They strolled past the Towers, now an army officers’ home but formerly the home of Robert’s parents, the hated Swinford-Brownes. Isabel’s parents-in-law were now living in East Grinstead; there had been a terrible accident in William Swinford-Browne’s munitions factory last year, and since then, few Ashden girls travelled to work there, preferring to work on the land or in Tunbridge Wells. One of the girls killed had been a former housemaid at the Rectory. Someone had to make munitions, the girls
argued now, but it wasn’t going to be Swinford-Browne, if they could help it.

They walked past all the dear familiar fields and at last reached the Gothic Horror, the Swinford-Browne cinema that Isabel now ran, which was advertising the Christmas fare of
Gertie the Dinosaur
. Almost home. The gates of the Rectory were open, the driveway was short, looking strange now the grass had been ploughed up for vegetables. At last she was ringing at the front door. Who would open it? Phoebe? Isabel? Mother?

‘Surprise!’ George yelled, jumping out at them.

‘No muffins!’ Caroline cried disbelievingly. ‘But Gwen Wilson
always
brings them round at four o’clock, and you can’t tell me she’s gone into the Army.’ Gwen, the baker’s sister from Lovel’s Mill, was fifty, and as well rounded as one of her delicious products; her sturdy trouser-clad figure, the clang of her bell and her call of ‘muffins, fresh muffins’, had become the symbol of winter to Caroline during the dark afternoons.

‘It’s the war,’ Isabel inevitably replied. ‘Don’t you read the newspapers? New regulations for bakers.’

‘In London I don’t stop for tea, but at Ashden I expect muffins. Muffins,’ Caroline declared grandly, ‘are a bastion against war. They should be the last thing to fall victim to shortages.’

‘Try Mrs Dibble’s oatmeal cakes with saccharin jam instead.’

Caroline laughed. She knew she was being ridiculous to mind so much, but she had wanted Yves to experience all the joys of Rectory life so far as was possible in wartime. Ah well, if it came to a choice, she would rather have Yves than muffins.

At least those first few precious moments standing in the Rectory hall, the centre of the warren of rooms around and above it, had not been denied her. Down those stairs the five Lilley children had clattered and shouted, rejoiced and wept, and here, God willing, they would all gather again once this war was over. To save paraffin for which agricultural use now had priority, the stove was not on, but it seemed to Caroline it hardly mattered; they were enclosed by the old familiar sights and sounds, and that was enough.

‘I’m home,’ she had declared with great satisfaction, then immediately regretted it as she realised what those words would mean to Yves, who had no home to which he could return – yet.

‘Follow me, Captain!’ George had seized Yves’ luggage, saluted smartly, and charged up the stairs to the room Yves had been allotted. Caroline had followed, humping her own suitcase (typical of brothers) into her own bedroom.

And there had been Isabel, waiting for her.
Most
unusual. Normally old lazybones Isabel would wait until one sought her out – unless she wanted something, Caroline remembered suspiciously.

‘You’re looking very pretty, Isabel. Is Robert coming home on leave?’

Isabel, the oldest of the four Lilley girls, would be twenty-nine in January. She had always been attractive, with her fair curls and large grey-blue eyes, but now she looked positively blooming.

‘No, but I’ve something even better to tell you. I made Mother and Father promise not to let the cat out of the bag first.’ Isabel paused impressively. ‘I’m going to have a baby. Isn’t that marvellous?’

‘Isabel!’ Caroline catapulted herself into her sister’s arms. ‘That’s wonderful news. I shan’t miss the muffins one little bit now.’ She disengaged herself and glanced at Isabel’s figure which was as slender as ever.

‘It’s very recent, about two months, but it’s certain. Nearly anyway, Dr Marden said. If so, it will be born in July.’

‘You didn’t want children at one time,’ Caroline asked curiously. ‘Are you sure you can cope?’

‘Times change,’ Isabel replied vaguely.

They did indeed. Isabel, from being the wayward, self-centred elder sister of her youth who would beg, borrow or steal whatever she wanted, was now a reformed character, according to Mother. This was quite obvious today, although Caroline was amused to see there were still a few signs of the old Isabel. There had not been a word about how Caroline was faring – but that was Isabel and always would be.

‘There may be a war on but tea’s still going to be served the way it ought to be, Myrtle,’ Margaret said sternly. ‘You put a decent cloth on that table. No making do with
yesterday’s. Field Marshal Haig won’t be having to do with dirty cloths and nor will we.’

It was bad enough having the dirty mud-coloured ‘wartime bread’ that the government had forced on the bakers. Once upon a time the best of the grain made flour for human beings, and the rest was given to the animals. Now their flour was a concoction of some of the best, some of the animals’ food, and the remainder any other cereals they could rake up. The Ministry proudly pointed out this meant they could probably avoid rationing it, but, if you asked Margaret Dibble, the taste of it did a good job rationing itself.

‘Off you go, Myrtle. Don’t stand there like a Lord Tom Noddy.’

Chastened, Myrtle scuttled off to the linen closet, while Agnes put the cups and plates ready. No sitting down watching for Margaret, however. Usually she took a cup herself about this time. Not today, as she presided over the rituals she had followed for so many years. She’d seen nearly as many Christmases here as the Rector himself. The war had put an end to many of the old ways. She and Mrs Lilley had had to put their heads together three days ago on St Thomas’s Day over what to do if the needy of the village came a-goodening. No one could be refused a gift if they came on Goodening Day. Nowadays, not many came. It wasn’t that there were less needy folk in Ashden, but that they kept themselves to themselves more, knowing that food shortages affected rectories as much as the smallest cottage. Once upon a time she’d made an extra twenty or so small plum puddings, and the good Lord alone could
count the mince pies. This year, only Sammy Farthing had come, and that was only because his neighbour Nanny Oates, with whom he shared many meals, would be coming to the Rectory on Christmas Day, and Sammy liked to lay in stocks in case his daughter-in-law forgot about him.

At least the mince pies were as they should be – or nearly – whatever deficiencies the stuffings, cakes and puddings might have. Percy’s potatoes went to help make pastry, a plentiful supply of apples from the orchard, and a lump of suet and scrag ends of beef obtained with a little pressure on Wally Bertram ensured that her mother’s old recipe for mincemeat could be adhered to.
And
the mince pies were the proper Sussex oval shape, not round like this modern fashion. Margaret was justifiably proud that her mince pies were striking another blow at the Kaiser, and a good job too.

It would be a small Christmas for her and Percy this year, even though Mr Peck and Miss Lewis, Lady Buckford’s staff, swelled the numbers. Myrtle would be off home after church, and Agnes too maybe. Lizzie would be here of course, bless her, and baby Frank. Not so much of a baby now. He’d passed his first birthday, and was into everything. Margaret supposed she should go to midnight Mass like the Rector wanted, but she hadn’t felt the same about the Church, not since Fred had died. The Rector never pressed her, he said she’d come in her own good time. If so, that wasn’t yet. This was the first Christmas without Fred and how could she go and give thanks as though nothing had happened?

There was a knock on the kitchen door, and when she
opened it Margaret found not only an unexpected, but an astonishing visitor. It was the Honourable Penelope Banning, Lord Banning’s daughter. Whatever was she doing here? She’d no idea there were to be Rectory guests for tea, and even if there were, she didn’t expect them to visit the kitchens, especially through the tradesmen’s entrance.

‘I’m sorry to barge in like this’ – she didn’t look sorry at all in fact – ‘but Mrs Lilley said you wouldn’t mind. I wanted to tell you myself, so that if I can’t find Lizzie you can pass on the news.’

Lizzie? News? It had to be bad, for that was all there was nowadays. But what did Miss Penelope have to do with Lizzie? She’d never met her, to Margaret’s knowledge. Miss Banning had been Master Reggie’s friend first, then Miss Caroline’s, but since the war began they hadn’t seen anything of her to speak of, her being out east as a nurse.
East!
A terrible thought struck her.

‘It’s good news in a way,’ Penelope said hastily, seeing dawning realisation on her face. ‘I wanted to tell Lizzie that Frank Eliot is back in this country. He’s in hospital with dysentery at Shooter’s Hill, south of London. The hospital where Caroline and Felicia did their training.’

The world was going cuckoo. Margaret just couldn’t take it all in. Frank was the father of Lizzie’s son, and hadn’t been able to get home since he was called up eighteen months ago. He’d seen she was all right for money and written regularly, but the letters didn’t arrive the same way. They came in bunches, and they hadn’t heard from him in months. Margaret fixed on the immediate puzzle. ‘How do you know about Frank, Miss Penelope?’

‘I was a nurse on the hospital ship that brought him back from the Mediterranean. He was part of Allenby’s army.’

Now that was a name Mrs Dibble knew well – everyone did. Two weeks ago General Lord Allenby had marched triumphantly into Jerusalem, where he had given a speech in every language under the sun to make sure this was a happy day for everyone – especially Jerusalem. It was the first success the British army had had for goodness knew how long, and it was fitting, Rector said, that at this time of year it was Jerusalem to be freed from occupation by the Central Powers and Turks.

‘Frank’s a fine man, Mrs Dibble,’ Penelope continued. ‘I came to know him quite well after we discovered we had Kent and Ashden in common.’

Before the war Miss Penelope wouldn’t have had a chance to chat to Frank Eliot, even if she’d wanted to. He had been manager of the hop garden for the Swinford-Brownes, and being a foreigner to the village he’d always been regarded with suspicion. It’s not that Miss Penelope would have thought him out of her class, but that their social circles would never have collided. War was a funny thing.

‘How is he?’ Conflicting emotions battled within her. She had grudgingly come to like Frank after Lizzie moved in with him without the benefit of the Lord’s blessing, but Lizzie had to remember she was still married to Rudolf, German or not. He’d left at the beginning of the war, and they’d heard that he was still alive.

‘He’s improving, I’m glad to say, but he needs a few more weeks in hospital.’

Well, Lizzie would have some good news for Christmas after all, for surely they wouldn’t send Frank back to the wars at his age, having been so ill? He must be nearly forty, if not over. Then she remembered what
they
had done to Fred, and misery overwhelmed her again.
They
could do anything they chose.

After Penelope had left, Margaret decided to have that cup of tea after all – to get over the shock, if nothing else. Not that you could call it tea nowadays it was so weak, more like water bewitched, as her mother used to say. Perhaps, she thought as the kettle boiled, she would go to church this evening after all, just to please Rector and Percy. Even the turkey and capon stuffing looked much more interesting, even if it was mostly oatmeal and herbs. Unbidden, she suddenly found herself first humming, then singing: ‘Jerusalem! …
Jerusalem!
…’

‘Mrs Dibble’s singing!’ Caroline went to the drawing-room door to make sure of her facts, and returned contentedly to Yves.

‘She has not the most tuneful of voices.’

‘It’s dreadful, but that’s not the point! It’s that she hasn’t sung since Fred died.’

‘I understand now.’ Yves crossed to sit beside her on the Chesterfield. ‘Caroline, I should not attend Mass at St Nicholas this evening.’

‘Because of your being a Roman Catholic?’

‘No, because of you. I should not take communion without telling your father how things are between us.’

‘We’ve discussed that,’ Caroline said gently. ‘What’s the
point of hurting them unnecessarily when we don’t know how long we’ll be together?’

‘It worries me.’

‘Please come.’

Reluctantly he agreed, to her great relief. St Nicholas and midnight Mass
were
Christmas. Within the timelessness of its thick, grey walls, the meaning of Christmas, even in these dark days of war, came home, and how could she bear it if Yves were not at her side?

Late that evening, in the familiarity of the scene of the villagers walking along the path to the church, each clutching a candle or torch because of the blackout, it was hard to think of the suffering of the men in the trenches. It was too big and too terrible a concept. She could only see it through the faces of those around her in church who had lost sons and fathers, faces like Mrs Hubble’s and Mrs Dibble’s, and those of her own family.

The church seemed full of ghosts, for most people here had been touched by the tragedy of war. For the Lilleys it was Felicia who was in their thoughts. Felicia had never told their parents how dangerous her job really was, always implying that she and Aunt Tilly worked at a baseline hospital, but somehow as time went by, Mother and Father seemed to have gathered the information without being told, perhaps from the newspapers, perhaps from people’s comments, or perhaps by parents’ intuition. Tomorrow they would at least have Aunt Tilly with them, for she was recovering apparently from some slight illness at Lord Banning’s home in Tunbridge Wells. Simon Banning, Penelope’s father, was a good friend of Caroline’s, and she suspected that he had
designs to change Aunt Tilly’s single status once this war was over. Designs he might have, but fulfilling them could prove harder, and Caroline and Penelope watched the progress of the ‘game’ with great interest.

As they emerged with their candles into the darkness after the service, ahead of her in the procession out of the church were the Hunneys. They still sat in the Hunney pew, as for centuries past.

Father had wanted to abolish the two remaining private pews now that the Norvilles had gone, but one hint of this to ‘Maud’ as she was disrespectfully known at the Rectory and even he had quailed. The Hunney pew remained.

Sir John was with Lady Hunney tonight, and also Daniel, now stomping around on his wooden leg without a second thought. All her life Caroline had battled with the domineering, awe-inspiring Lady Hunney, but now she seemed diminished in size, a woman, not the monster of Caroline’s memory. The shoulders were as stiff, but appeared bowed, although no hint of this was evident in her greeting to Caroline.

‘I am glad to see you, Caroline – and you too, Captain Rosier.’

Even as she was murmuring good wishes, Caroline could feel Reggie between them. His death, oddly enough, had brought his mother and Caroline together, just as his life had separated them. She was reluctantly now speaking to her daughter Eleanor, whom she considered had disgraced the family by marrying the vet Martin Cuss, but Martin was still beyond the Hunney pale. He was in the Royal Veterinary Corps, but had managed to wangle Christmas leave. He and
Eleanor weren’t spending it in Ashden, however, but at his parents’ home in Dorset, suitably far from Lady Hunney.