Songs of Spring (18 page)

Not that Margaret got much of a look-in there. Miss Lewis, Lady Buckford’s maid, had taken a fancy to Isabel Mary, but to her astonishment so too had Lady Buckford herself. Margaret had seen her one day attempting a goo-goo-goo for the babe’s benefit, but Lady B’s mouth was so out of practice at curving that it was more likely to frighten her to death than amuse her.

And
there was still poor Mrs Lilley to cope with, a shadow of her old self. Only Miss Caroline had a magic touch with her nowadays, and that was a fat lot of use with her in London most of the time.

‘Oh, just make a Mysterious Pudding,’ Mrs Lilley had replied when Margaret had asked her if she had any suggestions for dessert. Margaret continued to observe the tradition of consulting her over menus, but since Mrs Lilley would never remember what she said anyway, she might as well do what she’d planned. They’d worked their way through the strawberries and the raspberries weren’t ready yet. Summer was easier than winter in the kitchen, and there was no doubt rationing had made things easier in one way. At least you knew where you were – even if this meant having virtually nothing. Margaret thought wistfully of the days when the Rectory ranked next to the Manor for ‘little extras’. Not now. The only mysterious thing about this pudding is why anyone should bother to eat it. Steamed eggs and marmalade and butter for midsummer, indeed.

‘Yes, Mrs Lilley,’ she’d replied, but she had no intention
of cooking it. Eggs were too precious to use in puddings, butter wasn’t butter any more, and anyway Mrs Lilley looked as though she was forgetting what food was, for weight was falling off her. What a mercy Agnes had had the idea of calling the baby Isabel. She was a brave girl to suggest it, but it turned out just right.

‘Morning, Mrs D.’ Frank sauntered in through the tradesmen’s entrance. He was looking more like his old self now, helped by little Frank beginning to totter around. Family life suited him. Margaret recalled how much she’d taken against him at first, but she had to admit Frank had stood by Lizzie wonderfully. She pushed to the back of her mind the problem of what would happen if Rudolf came marching home.

A German in Ashden wasn’t going to be very popular, no matter who he was. She found herself hoping desperately that Rudolf wouldn’t come, and then had to battle with her conscience that she’d been witness to Lizzie’s promising to love Rudolf till death them did part. Loving wasn’t the same as living with someone, but God wasn’t interested in the letter, only the spirit of His law. ‘I’ve come to discuss your cookery talks in the cinema, Mrs D.’

‘In advance of yourself, aren’t you, Frank?’ It was only a week or so since Miss Caroline had arranged with old Swinford-Browne for it to be rebuilt. She’d come home jubilant after that success, only to follow it with a stroke of genius. Frank could carry on Isabel’s work. He’d jumped at it, now he’d been officially invalided out. ‘Till the end of the war, at any rate,’ he’d added casually, and they both knew what he meant.

Frank grinned. ‘The rebuilding won’t take long. Swinford-Browne doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet when he sets his mind to it. I should know.’

He should indeed, having managed the hop gardens on the Swinford-Browne estate before he went off to war. As it was currently occupied by the Army, Mrs Lilley’s agricultural force, chiefly Land Girls at the moment, had taken over their cultivation and harvest. What would happen after the war was anybody’s guess.

‘And I don’t let grass grow either,’ Frank continued. ‘You’ll still do your talks, Mrs D?’

Here was a pretty kettle of fish. Margaret was still giving the government-sponsored cookery demonstrations in Tunbridge Wells once a month, and with everything going on here that was quite enough for the present. True, she missed talks to the village, but if she went back, would Mrs Lilley mind? Margaret sighed as she debated the problem. Perhaps she’d have a word with Fred at the next seance in the Wells to see what he thought. In the old days when Fred had been here on earth, it would never have occurred to her to consult him on anything, but she had convinced herself that God must have put things right in his brain by now. For the first time, however, she found herself doubting the wisdom of this. Even if Fred was contactable in the afterlife, was it fair to bother him when he was so happy?
If
Fred were contactable … Margaret thought again about the Mysterious Pudding. All that was certain in this life was pudding mix and vegetables. Life had to go on, and she must make her own decisions, not rely on Fred.

‘I’ll sleep on it, Frank,’ she replied.

‘Good. Could you begin the demonstrations next week?’

‘
What?
You’ve a cheek, young man. They won’t be finished building by then. There aren’t the menfolk.’

‘No. But the loss of one wall doesn’t mean that the whole building is unusable. The stage is still there.’

‘It’s going to be on the draughty side, isn’t it?’

It was a perfunctory objection, and she thought about it after he’d left. It was summer, so lack of a wall wasn’t an insurmountable problem. Myrtle could look after things here for an hour. She could use the old portable stove. She could show them her fricassee of rabbit, cooked in the haybox. She found herself singing loudly: ‘God moves in a mysterious way/His wonders to perform …’

The office was becoming unbearable. Luke was so jubilant that Felicia was remaining in London that he spared little thought for anyone else and she hardly saw Yves at all. With only a day or two left before the King and Queen’s visit began, this should not have been surprising, but desolate herself, his absence increased her isolation. ‘One would think no royalty had ever visited Britain before,’ was all she permitted herself in the way of protest, when he came home in the small hours one morning.

‘None has under the organisation of Yves Rosier,’ he replied mildly, as his comforting shape materialised in the bed next to her.

‘All going well?’ she asked sleepily.

There was a large question mark over the visit for although the Belgian Front was quiet at the moment, and the chances of Ludendorff’s expected renewed assault
affecting the north of the line slim, if all their intelligence was wrong and the blow did fall there, the King would not leave his army.

‘I had a word with Ludo who promised he would not attack the Belgian Front this time. Now, my love, do you know what tomorrow is?’

‘The day before the King arrives,’ she retorted crossly.

He hugged her closer. ‘More important still. It’s Independence Day.’

‘For whom?’ Not for her, that was for sure.

‘The Americans.’

Now that the American troops were gathering in London in huge numbers on their way to France, anything that affected America now affected England. The American presence and success on the front had provided a much-needed boost to morale, so it was said, but here in London, Caroline was aware merely of one more set of uniforms crowding out the London restaurants, theatres and pubs, changing the city out of all recognition from its pre-war days.

‘Tomorrow, Caroline,’ he rocked her as he cuddled her in his arms, ‘Luke and I have an important engagement, for which we have decided we need the assistance of a WAAC.’

‘What is it?’ she asked guardedly.

‘A baseball game at the Chelsea Football Ground.’

‘Very funny. Now can I get back to sleep please?’

‘This is not a joke,’ he whispered. ‘It will be an important occasion. This will be the first time Independence Day is celebrated in England, and the first time British and the Americans have fought on the same side since they won their freedom.’

‘Freedom?’ she echoed indignantly, and poked her elbow back into his chest.

‘My apologies. The first time since the rebels foolishly and disastrously chose to call themselves a separate nation.’

‘That’s better.’

‘The US army is playing the US Navy tomorrow. Your king and queen will be there. Queen Alexandra and the princesses, and every dignitary under the sun, including Colonel Yves Rosier,
and
his staff.’

Sandwiched between Yves and Luke the following day, Caroline could hardly hear herself think. They were both entering into the spirit of the occasion and yelling alternately for the Army and the Navy. ‘Nobody,’ she tried to cry out to them over the uproar, ‘shouts like this at a cricket match.’

‘No,’ Yves agreed. ‘So I’ve noticed.’

She could make little sense of the game itself, although Luke had tried to explain it to her. All she had gathered was that the players made runs, the game seemed rather like rounders, and there were players called pitchers who seemed to be important. Among the spectators, there were, Luke told her, equally important gentlemen called rooters who led the yelling, chanting and songs for the different sides.

‘They’re doing a good job,’ she shouted fervently. The din was tremendous, as every pair of American lungs seemed to be yelling at full strength, and everyone else at least at half. Nor were the songs ones she had ever heard before. They were more like chants. She tried hard to identify the words of one, and so far as she could make out it ran:
‘Strawberry shortcake, huckleberry pie. Victory. Are we in it? Well, I guess.
Navy, Navy, yes, yes, yes
.’ That didn’t make sense, did it? What on earth were huckleberries? There was only one moment in the entire afternoon when there was absolute quiet, as the Welsh Guards played ‘The Star Spangled Banner’.

At the end of the match, won hands down by the Navy (she was told, for she couldn’t have worked it out for herself), every single spectator seemed to be surging onto the field. ‘Are they going to attack the winners?’ she asked.

‘Guess so, lady,’ Luke replied cheerfully.

Caroline regarded him severely. ‘If my father could hear you talking American slang, he’d forbid you entrance into the family.’

He did not comment, and Caroline was annoyed with herself that in her preoccupation with her own problems, she had once again overlooked those of others. Instead Luke went on to explain the surge onto the field was normal procedure.

‘Maybe they’ll do it when the war ends,’ she commented.

‘Maybe we’ll
all
do it then.’

George looked over the side of his SE5a at the flat green fields of France, interspersed with areas of mud. Down there were the trenches, miles and miles of them now that the fighting was so fluid. German advances swept over the original British trench lines and counter-attacks pushed them back. He had never understood how the Tommies could bear to be down there packed like sardines, at the mercy of shells and gas and with rats swimming round
them. He supposed the answer was that they had no choice and that some of them could
not
bear it. The Army showed short shrift towards deserters. Now there was a new enemy on the front too – the so-called Spanish influenza that had first crept in in April, and had now gathered momentum in a second wave.

Up here the air was clear, he could breathe, it was a straight and equal battle between the enemy and himself. It was possible up here even to forget his guilt at being alive at all, though he was aware that he now behaved more recklessly in the air than once he did. It had resulted in three victories since he’d been back, and yet he was still alive. The green fields below made him think of summer at the Rectory, but now there was a deep and terrible scar etched deep into the image of home. When he was killed, as soon he surely must be, Mother and Father would grieve, but he reasoned they had Caroline, Felicia and Phoebe to look after them – more than many families nowadays. Florence, for whom he was aware he felt a love that had little to do with the feelings he’d once had for Kate Burrows, would grieve too, but she was young and would recover. In time, he’d be a photograph in her memory, not a living person. He began to wish he hadn’t teased Caroline by pretending he was still seeing Kate. Why had he wanted to keep Florence all to himself for the moment? Because, he supposed, they probably had so little time, and he had to make Florence a life apart from his job.

He didn’t score on this patrol and that vexed him. If he was going to die, he wanted to take a few more of the enemy with him first. He landed the aircraft skilfully, bumping over the rough grass, and then strolled over to
join the mechanics. Preoccupied, he did not notice the subdued atmosphere for a while. When he did, he asked: ‘What’s up?’

‘McCudden’s gone west, sir.’

‘
The
McCudden?’ George repeated incredulously. ‘You mean he’s dead?’

For a moment he was sure he’d got the wrong end of the stick. James McCudden, with his scores of victories, was immortal. It was only in March he’d left 56 Squadron, where George had known him well, and then he’d been awarded the VC in April. A week or two ago he’d returned to France to join 60 Squadron. Now he too had gone. ‘How did it happen?’ he asked dully.

‘Accident, sir. Engine failure, they think. Just after he took off.’

George was angry. How could mere chance take McCudden, just as it had taken Isabel and Nanny Oates? And what right had he, George Lilley, to have contemplated death with such inevitability when death could reach out and pluck whom it wished?

From now on, he vowed, death would have a fight on its hands, and so would the enemy. After the war, which the Allies would surely win now, he would concentrate on his career as a cartoonist, take Florence to the Rectory, marry her if he were lucky enough, and have children of his own. The first daughter would be Isabel, and the first son would be called James.

Any moment now the train would be steaming out of the station, King George and Queen Mary would return to Buckingham Palace, the band stop playing and the guard
of honour of the Reserve Battalion of the Scots Guards depart. Yves would cease to be in attendance on King Albert twenty-four hours a day, and life could resume some sort of normality again. Caroline Lilley was merely allowed to join the small crowd permitted within Charing Cross Station itself as the very grand Colonel Rosier’s WAAC clerk, of course. He had just been promoted by King Albert. It was less than a week since the King and Queen Elisabeth had arrived in two separate seaplanes from Calais to begin their hectic visit. Their method of arrival had been one of the best-kept secrets, as a security measure. Their visit had begun with the celebrations for the silver wedding anniversary of King George and Queen Mary on the Saturday, then they had rushed up to Scotland to review the battleship squadron in the Firth of Forth, returning yesterday to sit in on a War Committee session with Lloyd George.