Songs of Spring (13 page)

In Ashden the fields would be green, the hedgerows full of bluebells, the orchard gleaming pink with apple blossom. Even the Kaiser couldn’t stop that. London had its trees and flowers too, even with war restrictions, but it was not like Ashden where flowers grew to their own rules, not to ordered precision. May was a time for lovers to wander in the twilight with birds singing their spring songs, but where was hers? Caroline had not spoken to Yves, and indeed nor had Luke, and considering the pressure on the London–La Panne line it was hardly surprising. She had received several brief notes from Yves, however – much to her relief. They were, she knew, more than she deserved.

Work and more work stared her in the face daily. Luke was often away, and the daily train-watching reports from La Dame Blanche grew longer – a probable sign of the expected next push forward by the Germans.

‘I wonder if Ludendorff is playing a game with us,’ Luke
complained, pushing a report over to her. ‘Look at this. Two divisions going not to Ypres but to Laon in the French sector.’

‘Do you think it’s to deceive us?’

‘That’s what the French believe.’ Luke sighed. ‘They always do. We receive intelligence, we share it with them, and they won’t believe it because it doesn’t come from
their
intelligence service.’

‘Yet it seems odd. They pushed so far ahead further north that surely they would try there again, not on the eastern French sector.’

‘No,’ Luke replied. ‘I think it all too likely after Amiens that they’re going for the River Marne in the east where they were so nearly successful in 1914.’

‘To take Paris?’

‘It’s the key to France. Why not one more go?’

‘The American situation is a factor.’ Last month Haig had issued his special order of the day urging the troops to fight to the end ‘with our backs to the wall’. Conscription had been extended to Ireland, and the age increased to fifty. Such was the shortage of men on the front and the dire emergency facing them that even Pershing had relented and offered some more of his precious troops to the Allied command.

‘Fortunately Pershing’s long-term intentions are as much of a mystery to Ludendorff as they are to us.’ Luke changed the subject. ‘What are you going to do for Whitsun?’

Caroline’s stomach lurched. Isabel had let the cat out of the bag about the party. ‘There’s still a week to go to the 19th. I’m hoping Yves will be back.’ At least she could celebrate it somehow.

‘You’re not going to the Rectory?’

‘How can I?’ Caroline asked wretchedly. ‘Whether Yves is here or not makes no difference really. The position is the same.’ A thought struck her. ‘Are you going?’

‘No. Daniel’s going. There’ll be plenty of chances for me to see her when she comes up to London, so I’m doing the gentlemanly thing and giving him a clear field.’

‘I don’t think Daniel would recognise a clear field, he seems determined to muddy it for himself.’

‘I can’t say I object to that.’

‘No.’ How complicated life was. Caroline decided she should shut her mind to the Rectory party and try to enjoy Whitsun in London. After all, Tilly and Penelope were in London. Ellen too might be at a loose end. And Luke would be here. She began to cheer up, although she returned home tired after a solid day of reports that produced nothing of excitement but merely contributed to the confused picture of where German reinforcements were building up. All in all, Luke was right. The French lines in the east were the destination of most of the reinforcements, who were new recruits from Germany. Any vestige of rising spirits was promptly dampened by Ellen’s cheerful announcement: ‘I’m going to see my folks at Whitsun. You can take over the cooking.’

‘A woman’s place,’ Caroline muttered savagely. Now she’d have to battle with queues at the Maypole Dairy and the ever-running campaign of attrition at the butcher’s. Rationing worked well, but you still had to queue and battle for the best. Ah well, perhaps London would be at least slightly in holiday mood. The lights had not dimmed
for over two months now in London – this was another form of air raid warning to take cover in the Underground railway tunnels or house cellars.

‘Telephone call for you,’ Ellen sang out.

Caroline ran into their living room. ‘Probably a wrong number,’ she said gloomily.

But it wasn’t. It was the first time she had heard her mother’s voice since her visit to Ashden Hospital, three months ago. ‘Caroline,’ was all she said; her voice hesitant but warm.

Tears pricked at her eyes. Say something, she told herself.
Anything
. But she seemed frozen, and managed only a croak of ‘Mother.’

‘Caroline, do come to the party on Sunday evening. George is coming home on leave. We thought if you came down with Phoebe – that’s if Billy and Yves don’t mind not coming—’ Her mother’s voice dropped as if even she realised how impossible her request was.

‘Mother, I can’t,’ Caroline stammered. ‘I’ll ask Phoebe, but I don’t imagine she would come either under that condition.’ She found herself choking. ‘I’m sorry.’

A sigh, a ‘We love you, Caroline,’ and the telephone receiver was hung up.

Caroline promptly burst into tears. How could she go? She couldn’t, and that was that.

‘Bad news?’ Ellen asked worriedly.

‘No. The old problem again.’

‘Families! Come on, let’s go out on the town.’

At twelve o’clock that Friday night, Caroline’s bedroom door opened. Always a light sleeper she turned over.
‘Ellen?’ she asked sleepily, then sensing it was a man, sat bolt upright. ‘Luke, what’s wrong?’

‘Not Luke,’ said a familiar voice.

‘Yves!’ she screamed, throwing aside the bedclothes and scrambling out. His arms enfolded her and swung her round. She could feel the buttons on his uniform pressing through her thin nightdress. He was really back and it was
all right
. ‘Oh, it’s going to be a wonderful Whitsun,’ she cried.

Margaret carefully turned the jelly out of the pineapple mould. Miss Felicia always liked jelly, and jelly she should have, even if pineapples were a thing of the past. Even Lady Buckford seemed in good form this evening, perhaps because his lordship, her eldest son, was here with his wife. There was another son too, Margaret had gathered, though Gerald was never spoken of, for to Lady Buckford he was even more of a black sheep than the Rector. He’d gone to America, and no one heard from him now. Families were funny things. Lady Buckford was even making the odd joke this evening, even if her idea of a joke was rarely shared by anyone else. Nanny wasn’t pleased to see Lady Buckford, for they’d crossed too many swords in their time when she was Rector’s nanny, but just for tonight it seemed they’d buried the hatchet. At the session in Tunbridge Wells yesterday, Fred had assured her they would have a lovely party this evening, and if Fred said so, who was she to disbelieve him?

Miss Felicia looked nice in her old blue; it had always suited her, and now it was shorter it was almost unrecognisable, especially since she’d had her hair cut.
Margaret didn’t approve of all this modern styling, and Miss Felicia’s lovely long hair was a real loss. Still, she understood it was necessary, what with her work on the front – no time for rosemary shampoos there. It was nice to see everyone dressed properly for dinner tonight. Mostly the family ate at separate times now and didn’t bother to dress. She’d almost forgotten what a handsome figure the Rector cut in his dinner suit, and Mrs Lilley had gone to some trouble with her red velvet. Even Lady Buckford had put her tiara on and pearl choker. After all, Miss Felicia was a somebody, and Mrs Isabel had persuaded her to put on her Order of Prince Leopold, which she and Miss Tilly had been awarded by King Albert of Belgium. Mr Daniel was looking handsome too, bless him, and when she carried in the roast he was joking away with Miss Felicia in a way she hadn’t seen for many a year. Lady Hunney and Lady Buckford were engaged in telling stories of the Rector and Daniel as children, and the Rector and his brother were deep in conversation. When she returned to clear the dishes and take in the pudding, Mrs Isabel was animatedly telling Master George about the success of the cine-motor campaign, and his cartoon film in particular.

‘Half a million people have seen them now,’ Isabel was crowing.

‘I wish I had a penny from each of them,’ George grumbled. ‘Not one did I get.’

‘Scrooge,’ declared his sister, and quite right too, in Margaret’s view. ‘Don’t you love your country?’

‘Not half as much as Mrs Dibble’s puddings.’ George attacked the jelly eagerly.

‘That’s Miss Felicia’s,’ Margaret said, shocked, before she remembered her place.

‘Let Scrooge have it,’ Felicia said.

‘Now I can tell a tale or two about Rector and jelly,’ Nanny Oates chipped in.

Margaret gave a mental sniff and retired from the room. She had better things to do than listen to Nanny rabbiting on for hours.

‘All going well in there?’ Percy looked up from his evening paper when she reached the kitchen.

Margaret sighed, suddenly she felt very weary. ‘Yes. It’s not going to be the same, is it, without Miss Felicia? Having Master George home makes you realise how much you miss him.’ She yawned. ‘You know, Percy, for once I’m going to let Agnes and Myrtle do the washing-up, and go to bed after I’ve taken in the coffee.’

Myrtle could manage the dishes, even if Agnes was tucked up in bed. She only had a month or so to go now, before the little one was due, otherwise Margaret wouldn’t be called upon to do so much of the waiting. The time was getting on anyway. It was gone ten-thirty, and past her usual bedtime. Tomorrow might be a bank holiday, but food still had to be thought of.

‘Good idea, Margaret. You mind yourself. You’re not as young as you were.’

Margaret saw red. ‘Oh yes, I am, Percy Dibble,’ she snapped right back. She pursed her lips. She’d donated her final bottle of last year’s plums for that jelly, and no one was going to bear out the remains but her. She forgot about bed, and half an hour later she was still
up. After all, there was only one more job to do.

‘Just in time, Mrs Dibble,’ Isabel called, as she took in the coffee – if you could call it that now. ‘You can join in the loyal toast.’

Everyone looked flushed and happy, and Margaret didn’t want to spoil the fun. ‘I don’t mind giving King George V a toast, Mrs Isabel. Nothing alcoholic, mind.’

‘Of course not.’ The Rector sounded shocked, but she could see he was grinning. All right, so he thought her temperance was funny, but say what you like, it was God who made water, sugar, and the grape, and only man who worked out how to make alcohol from them.

‘It isn’t the King, Mrs Dibble.’

‘Who then?’

Mrs Isabel stood up. ‘On this lovely evening,’ she said, ‘there can be only one toast:
absent hearts
!’ She looked round the table. ‘Robert in Germany, Caroline and Phoebe in London, and dear ones no longer with us: Fred Dibble and Reggie Hunney.’

Margaret through a sort of blur could see Mrs Lilley trying to hold back tears and failing. The Rector rose to the occasion though. ‘Absent hearts,’ he repeated quietly, ‘but always present in ours.’

Margaret carefully did up her hair in its rags, for all her tiredness. After all, one had to face one’s Maker in a proper way on Monday morning no matter what a mess you felt the night before. She smeared on her hand cream (her mother’s recipe of lemon, glycerine and eau de cologne), said her prayers, asked after Fred, who’d been right about
it being a lovely party, sought forgiveness for tonight’s nasty thoughts about Nanny Oates, and climbed gratefully into bed. There was no point waiting for Percy since he had to lock up after everyone had gone.

Margaret fell asleep, still planning tomorrow’s apple pudding from her bottled apples, and the bit of suet she’d forced out of that miserly Wally Bertram. Suddenly the pudding exploded all round her, the ground was rocking, and she seemed trapped in bits of apple and crust. She realised she must be awake again. Or was she? Everything was spinning round her, it was cold with a wind blowing, and her hand was red with blood. No, it couldn’t be blood, surely. There was broken glass on the bed though, and a stifling acrid smell. This must be a nightmare, for there was a dead silence like the end of the world had come; it lasted forever, it lasted no time at all, and then came the screams.

The whole of ‘out there’ seemed to be screaming. She licked the blood off her hand, and found it was real, and therefore
the screams were too.

Margaret’s brain cleared and she went straight into action. There was no sign of Percy, no light in their quarters, and she couldn’t stop to find him. The screams were outside, no, inside; even from here she could hear pounding feet in the Rectory as she rushed through, not even stopping for a dressing gown, just her slippers, into the kitchen. There was broken crockery all over the floor, but one lamp was still lit. In its dull glow she could see Myrtle crouched down, her arms round her head, moaning. Where was Percy? Fear hammered at her in this alien place. And then she saw him, in the doorway, just lying there groaning.

‘Get up, Percy,’ she croaked, as she ran into the Rectory hall.

The front door was wide open, the wind and dirt blowing in, and through it she could hear the screaming. Outside, in the garden, was it? Or further, on Bankside? She could see Miss Felicia running down the drive and the Rector after her. Mrs Lilley, rushing downstairs in her dressing gown, fell into Margaret’s arms at the bottom. ‘Isabel, George,’ she was babbling. ‘They took Nanny home.’

Margaret tried to make sense of this. Something had happened. She’d no proper shoes on, she’d no torch. If she was to do any good out there – whatever it was – she needed both. She ran back to the kitchen to find her old snowshoes, and found a dazed Percy was clambering to his feet.

‘The barometer,’ he said jerkily. It was lying in the hall, she’d noticed, and must have fallen on his head. Percy would be no use. It was up to her. Margaret threw one of the Rector’s coats over her dressing gown and ran after the Rector. There was no sign of Mrs Lilley.